Warder tales
by Blue Dragon
Summary: "Telling them apart" part 2: The story of how Yamela found her twins. And did a lot of other things. Which includes stepping on important people's toes and making poor Anthared worried. Not to mention what the twins are up to...
1. Green: To Choose a Warder

_Before we begin, Author's Note:_

_These are short stand-alone stories about the characters I created for "Warders", which is a loosely knotted chronology about eight different Warders - one for each Ajah, including the Black - and their relationships to their Aes Sedai. If I were you, I would read that first, but it's not compulsory._

_The short stories in here are not in chronological order. Some take place before "Warders", and some take place after. Which are where should be self-explanatory if you've read "Warders"._

_In any case, on with the show. Watch out for the twins. They'll stick to your brain. And watch out for Haqon. The adult Haqon. He scares me sometimes._

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

**To Choose a Warder**

The common room in the Warders' quarters was usually a quiet place. Functional and homely, it was a place in which Warders seemed more at ease than in any other – which meant they looked much like leopards taking a rest in the shade. Some read books while stretched out on comfortable divans by the tall windows, some dozed easily in armchairs, many played dice or even cards, or sat near the fire conversing and honing blades.

In the same building lived the recruits, under the strict supervision of their tutors; a small group of youngsters whose goal in life was a bond to an Aes Sedai, and who had shown enough promise to be taken in and taught.

That morning, the furthest advanced of the recruits had been gathered in the common room, and stood straight-backed in a single orderly line, trying to emulate the stone faces of their tutors, with their hands clasped behind their backs. Their eyes betrayed them, however. Quite different from the lazily roaming alertness of the Warders, the eyes of the recruits darted back and forth in hasty glances at each other, at one instructor or another, and at the curiously observing Warders, and at the two Aes Sedai and Master of Arms, Harran.

One of those Aes Sedai was Yamela, who felt suitably important for the day. She was there on orders, accompanying newly raised Feyon Velmar as she chose her first Warder. From what she had seen, Feyon had already made her choice, but the girl strolled along the line of recruits by Harran's side, taking in his impressions of the different lads with an air of frank interest.

Feyon was a small and slightly plump girl, who wore her curly blond hair cropped short. Her dimples made her pretty when she smiled, but her tone of skin was unfortunately well suited for rosy blushing. The only thing which would ever make anyone believe her an Aes Sedai of the Green was the shawl draped across her shoulders. But the girl had a decisive streak: once she set on something, she was about as easily deterred as a rockslide. So her attentive appearance, Yamela mused, was only for show.

Yamela's own Warders stood behind and around her. She felt them more than saw them; silver-haired Anthared, calm and solid and dependable as a mountain, who valued nothing in any dream, and nothing in the waken world, higher than he did her. And her twins, Vaston and Durrak; quick of wit as well as mind, their emotions somehow in eternal synchronization, never far from laughter.

Not so today either. She could almost feel how it built up, the tension from saying nothing as they observed Feyon and Harran. She could feel the grins bubbling, just beneath their cool – well, moderately cool – Warder faces.

Feyon left Harran with the other instructors and came up to Yamela.

"Have you made a choice?" Yamela asked.

The girl's blush spoke for her, and she nodded. "Actually," she admitted softly, "I'd already made my choice. I listened to Harran for form's sake, and I haven't changed my mind."

"I suspected as much," Yamela said. She also suspected Feyon was the kind of Green who would have only a single Warder. Behind her, Vaston and Durrak were about to burst. She rolled her eyes, blinked conspiratorially at Feyon, and turned to Vaston. "Out with it. What are you thinking?"

"Oh, nothing in particular," Vaston assured her.

She raised an eyebrow.

"We just thought…" Durrak mused, with a small bow at Feyon, "that you, Feyon Sedai, are fortunate that it was our Yamela who came with you today."

"Yes," said Vaston. "Yamela doesn't make too much of a _bother_, as you can see. But if Doveina Sedai were here, you would end up with a Warder who matched your dress…"

Feyon shot Yamela a questioning glance, and Yamela shrugged.

Durrak mock-punched his brother's shoulder. "Doveina isn't so bad. She should be glad _Old Mae _didn't decide to help her –"

"Maeba Sedai," Anthared corrected in a growl.

"Maeba Sedai, true enough," said Durrak, as Vaston continued: "Last time Old Mae –"

"_Maeba Sedai_."

"Maeba Sedai," agreed Durrak gravely, while Vaston went on: "Last time she picked a new Warder, I hear she asked to see his teeth."

"Oh, that she did," Durrak chuckled and nodded. With a glance at Anthared he added; "But Gerro made a fine Warder all the same. Talented with the sword –"

"Dedicated –"

"Formal and proper –"

"Intelligent –"

"And he does have _lovely_ teeth."

Anthared glared, while the twins lit up in bright grins, their Warder countenance washed clean away. Both their bonds were about to burst with amusement, and Yamela had to focus hard to avoid grinning just as broadly. It was like ignoring the sun in the middle of the desert.

That was the twins; her two _suns_. Her two cores of bright, burning joy.

Anthared's bond, however, was disapproving, and his face probably matched his bond. She did not see it; it was behind her. But she could well imagine.

"So… let's see," began Durrak in a manner drooping with false remorse. "We failed to title an Aes Sedai –"

"Joked around in public –"

"Babbled and gossiped –"

"And the good Anthared counts our misdeed in his head… my guess, brother Durrak, is that he will decide on seven laps."

"Seven? Seven laps around the Tower? Dear brother Vaston, I –"

"Ten," said Anthared.

The twins bowed in unison. "Ten it is!" said Durrak happily.

"And we'll be sure to think about our misdeeds as we run!" assured Vaston.

"We'll even compose a song about them –"

"And sing it!"

The two bowed again, synchronized perfectly, and ran off.

Yamela and Feyon exchanged a look, both stifling giggles.

Anthared rolled his eyes. "That, Feyon Sedai, is not proper Warder behaviour," he informed her.

"Oh, but Anthared, it _is_," Yamela disagreed. "They behave exactly as I want them to behave."

Anthared stared at her, and sighed heavily. "Light help me. I believe you're right."

"Cheer up," she said, and patted his arm comfortingly. "You know they act 'properly' when there's a need."

"Which is why I've let them live."

"Isn't he just _wonderful_?" Yamela smirked at Feyon, and fondly hugged Anthared's arm. He was just bone and corded muscle, lean to the point of scrawny, and she resolved to make sure he ate decently that evening.

"I do my best, Aes Sedai," murmured Anthared, and inclined his head to her.

"Which reminds me," Yamela said, her attention back to Feyon, "you said you've made your choice?"

Feyon nodded. "I've already known Dakeel for two years."

"Dakeel?"

"Fourth from the right."

"The Arafellin? Braids with bells and two swords across his back?"

"The same."

"Dakeel Comer," muttered Anthared into Yamela's ear, and giving the youth in question a glare which betrayed nothing. "Well. At least he can use those swords of his. But he's a dreamy lad. He needs a good leash put on him. And a good dose of _reality_. A few close calls to teach him, and I suppose he'll do."

Yamela felt thankful to her Warder – he had a keen eye, and could analyze the recruits better than she could. She also felt thankful that Feyon was not listening to Anthared's grumpy assessment. The newly raised Green was watching Dakeel in a way which was much less discreet than Anthared's bland glare, and much more admiring.

"He plays the harp," she revealed distantly.

Yamela sighed. "Oh, _really_?"

Feyon nodded – a motion designed to hide another blush. Yamela's impression that Feyon would keep to one Warder was strengthened.

Yamela sighed again. As far as she was concerned, the matter was settled. Feyon was pleased. Dakeel would likely offer no objections. More importantly, _Anthared_ had no greater objections, and had the lad been unsuitable, Harran would never even have presented him.

"Master Harran, send over the Arafellin boy," Yamela called.

"Dakeel!" barked Harran. "You heard!"

Dakeel sprang forth, agile as a cat, and came to a halt just before Yamela and Feyon. He bowed – and came up to aim a fool's grin at Feyon. Feyon's returning smile was almost as foolish.

_One single Warder_, thought Yamela. _There's not a doubt about it._

"You may disperse the others, Master Harran, and you have our thanks," Anthared told the Master at Arms.

Master Harran inclined his head and did as commanded.

"Aes Sedai. Shall we go somewhere less… crowded?" suggested Anthared.

Feyon nodded, and as she held out her arm Dakeel took it and escorted her towards the exit, still grinning like a fool.

Yamela trooped after, studying the two. They already had their heads together. She absently held out her own arm, and Anthared took it. Cautious yet alert, dependable as the dawn, that was her Anthared. Devoted to her like a flower that worshiped the sun, like a bird praised the winds that carried him, like a fish was devoted to the sea. She felt a sudden flash of affection for her eldest Warder. Whatever would she do without him?

His fingers were bony – she would _make_ him eat more, Light help her.

"That went well," Yamela said softly.

"Tegaro Mardnil would have made a better choice. He has the sharpest eyes I've seen in years, and wields any weapon in his hand as if the Creator had put it there." Anthared's tone was dry as he went on; "Of course, he does not _play the harp_."

"She made an excellent choice," Yamela disagreed firmly. "Dakeel is a good enough swordsman, you said it yourself." He grunted affirmation. "And," Yamela went on, "more importantly; she's chosen her Warder in exactly the right way. In the only way a Warder should ever be chosen."

"And how's that?"

"How I chose you. And how I chose the twins."

He looked at her, eyebrows raised, puzzlement in his eyes.

"With my _heart_," said Yamela, and tiptoed to place a peck of a kiss on his cheek.

He muttered something unintelligible, which made her smirk.


	2. Brown: The Boy In the Library

**The Boy In The Library**

The sharp voice cut through the corridor like an axe split wood.

"Get _moving_, child. You've not business here."

Jahra looked up from her book, and put it beneath her arm. That had unmistakably been Gennyve Sedai. Last she had walked past Gennyve Sedai, she had had her nose in her book and forgotten to curtsy, and she had near been sent to the Mistress of Novices for a strapping for even so slight an oversight. Really. She had been reading about the founding of the Tower, and there had been that absolutely _fascinating_ thesis on the formation of the Ajahs –

Jahra came dreamily into the corridor where the library's entrance was to be found. She blinked in surprise. Outside the door, two Brown sisters were confronting a boy. A _boy_?

"Aes Sedai," the boy said and bowed – very neatly. Someone had drilled his manners beyond his age. "Pardon me, Aes Sedai, but they say you've got hundreds of books. I've never seen hundreds of books. I'd like to, if I may."

"And why would we let _you_ in, child?"

The boy actually straightened up and met Gennyve's eyes. "Aes Sedai, begging pardon, but you don't frighten me. My papa was frightened of Aes Sedai. But mama says papa was a fool, and that's why he's dead, too. She's always told me not to be jumpy around my betters just because they're my betters."

"How _delightful_," said Gennyve, her sharp-elbowed arms crossed over her chest in a manner as closed and cold-hearted as a locked gate in winter. "Now you had better get –"

Jahra was careful to curtsy as she approached. "Good day, Gennyve Sedai, Ullara Sedai," she greeted them, and made to continue past them. If Gennyve was in this mood, she wanted nothing to do with the woman. Being spanked made it hard to sit, and it was so much more comfortable to read sitting down.

Besides, Yamela would likely drag her into some prank of revenge. Not that Gennyve did not deserve it. The woman had once confined her to the kitchens for days, scrubbing pots, when she should have been learning about the history and traditions of the Whitecloaks. An intriguing organization, those Children of the Light. So dedicated, yet so _blind_ –

Suddenly, she grew aware of the boy's scrutiny. She blinked, paused, and looked at him properly for the first time. He smiled as she met his eyes, and he had a very charming smile.

He was perhaps not as young as he looked – thirteen, fourteen, cursed by the gangly frame and pimpled face which came with the age. But she had at best six years on him. And he wore the garb of the Warder trainees. No one too young wore those clothes. She had seen them train, when she accompanied Yamela to the practice yards.

Yamela and her practice yards. If Yamela did not choose Green, then there was something wrong with the world.

Oh, well. Jahra turned away from the boy and set her hand to the door.

"Gennyve," said Ullara Sedai then, and reached to lay a hand on Jahra's shoulder. Ullara Sedai was younger, if still grey-haired, and where Gennyve looked like an old witch, Ullara looked like a goodly grandmother – and had been known to give extra help to both Accepted and Novices who needed it. "I couldn't live with myself for denying someone the sight of a library –"

"Ullara, the boy has no business in a _library_ –"

"Oh, I quite agree. Still, I've spent near a hundred years promoting learning and the lettered arts around the world, and to keep someone away from books is, well, against my nature. So I propose…" She gave Jahra a glance. "Jahra here is a good girl. I propose we let the boy in under her supervision."

The boy straightened, and now – he had seen her Accepted's dress and hesitated before – now, he offered Jahra the same sort of bow he had given the two Aes Sedai. She blinked again, surprised, unused to people bowing to her.

She was to be Aes Sedai in not very long. She supposed she should get used to it. But no one had ever bowed to her before, and it made her feel odd.

"But, Ullara –" began Gennyve, but her tone was surprisingly meek. Jahra again wondered _how_, exactly, Aes Sedai decided their pecking order. It never seemed to make any sense. She did not _like_ when things made no sense.

"No buts, Gennyve. This is how we'll do it. Jahra, child? Bring the boy with you inside, and make sure he keeps his hands to himself. You're responsible for him."

Jahra hid a groan, but curtsied quickly enough. "Yes, Ullara Sedai. I understand."

"Thank you, Aes Sedai!" the boy barked, slamming his heels together and saluting Ullara Sedai, then bowing for good measure. A moment later he had not only bowed to Gennyve Sedai, but also to Jahra, and was courteously holding the door open for her.

"Keep a good eye, child," Gennyve warned, with a nasty look at Jahra, which she understood perfectly. If the boy so much as _breathed _on something for too long, the best Jahra could hope for was another week of scrubbing pots. She hated scrubbing pots. How was she to study with her arms elbow-deep in dirty water?

Jahra curtsied with a very meek "Yes, Gennyve Sedai," and hurried through the door.

The boy let it close behind her. Now, with the Aes Sedai out of sight, he was grinning – grinning like a fool. Like a boy who had just completed some successful prank. He stood staring out across the library, at the tall walls filled with books. A blend of thrill and marvel set his brown eyes shining. Only his grin kept his jaw from dropping.

Jahra sighed. If only she had had the good fortune to _not_ walk past just then. If only…

'If only' never did anyone any good. Better to deal with the matter at hand. The boy was her responsibility, and Jahra knew responsibility when she saw it. Saw it, was reminded of it, and had the threat of Gennyve Sedai's anger hanging over her as a reminder.

She did forget things sometimes, unless reminded. Only sometimes, mind.

But Gennyve Sedai had been right. Warder trainees had no place in the library. She crossed her arms over her chest and hoped that the Master of Arms had him well disciplined.

Or she would simply bundle him up in Air and escort him out again by his ear.

"You do realise that Gennyve Sedai will flay me alive if you cause any trouble?" Jahra asked him.

"Yes, Aes –"

"Hush!" Jahra interrupted hurriedly, and clapped her hand over his mouth. "No, I'm no _Aes Sedai_. Not _yet_."

"But you will be, won't you?"

"Yes. In perhaps another three or four years."

"I'm going to be a Warder," he told her brightly, standing straighter and prouder at the mere thought. "A Green's, I think. And I'm going to fight trollocs and Myrddraal in the Blight. Just like Dasterian Light-bringer did, in all the stories."

Jahra sighed. People thought they knew history, but they always knew nothing. "Dasterian o'Marr was his name," she corrected firmly. "And he only visited the Blight four times. He's actually most famous because his Aes Sedai was raised to the Amyrlin Seat, and he died a couple of years after that –"

"Died defending her against shadowspawn."

"No. Against an assassin."

"A Darkfriend assassin!"

"There was no proof of that."

"But if he wanted to kill the Amyrlin Seat, he must have been –"

Jahra rolled her eyes. "Oh, for the sake of the Light. Come on. I'll show you the records and you may read them for yourself." She headed off, but only after a few steps she paused.

It was a curious sensation which came over her; the knowledge that he was _not following_. Usually, she would not have noticed, or cared, if someone was accompanying her, or following her, or not. But now, she noticed, and she paused, half-turning. "Don't you want to read about Dasterian?"

His eyes were less bright now, and he spread his hands helplessly. "I can't _read_, Aes –"

"Don't call me that!"

"Then what do I call you?"

"My name is Jahra Bartangion. Just _Jahra_ will do nicely." She pursed her lips. "You honestly can't read?"

"My papa could. He had five books, and he read to me when I was little. They were his greatest treasure, but when he died, mama just sold them. She can't read, and I can't either." He looked very forlorn, and sort of guilty, as if he had committed some crime. "I – I would very much _like_ to read, Aes – I mean, _Jahra_. I really would. Stories and –"

"There's more to the world, and to reading, than _stories_," Jahra informed him. _Stories_! Stories filled with glory and embroidered victories. Was that all those Warder trainees had in their heads? Shameful. Yamela had been bad enough, babbling far and wide of this half-true hero or that vastly exaggerated heroine. Jahra had put Yamela straight, though, and Yamela knew her histories now. Knew them well.

But Yamela had at least been able to _read_, and had had no excuse for not having done so. This boy… he had never had the opportunity. Never had the chance. He _couldn't_ read. Ullara Sedai had been right; to deny someone _that_…

Jahra felt another odd emotion. It was _sympathy_, she realised after a moment. She felt _sorry_ for the lad!

"Oh, very well," Jahra whispered to herself, and brushed her skirts with her free hand – the other still held her book. "Come on, boy. I'll show you the records of Dasterian o'Marr. He kept detailed journals, you know."

"You'll read them to me?" he breathed.

"Better yet," Jahra said. "I'll teach you to read them for yourself."

He gaped at her, and his jaw worked soundlessly for a moment. "I – I mean –" He actually blushed. "Thank you, Jahra. _Thank you_." He dipped in another perfected bow. How could someone so lanky, so long-limbed, bow so gracefully? Was that all the Master of Arms taught his pupils? Then no wonder they didn't know their _history_…

Jahra turned and waved him along as she set off. This time, she knew he was following, at her heels like a puppy. Light, more than a _puppy_. She suddenly realised that he was as tall as she was! "But don't _touch_ anything," she added sternly.

"Oh, I won't," he assured her giddily. "I'll behave, promise."

Jahra hoped he would. The sooner this was done with, the sooner she could return to her studies. But the poor lad likely believed the fool stories of the great hero Dasterian returning alone from the Blight with ten Myrddraal heads in a sack. In truth, it had been four, and he had not been alone. But while Dasterian had been the orderly and honest type, his younger brother Warders had been more keen on a good story, and once Dasterian died his hero's death – well, it had been that, Darkfriend or not – his brother Warders had spread his tales over quite a few tankards of mead, with more colour than they deserved. Which, of course, was human nature, and perfectly understandable. But historically incorrect.

The sooner she set the boy straight, the sooner she could return to – to reading about the Borderlands in the very same period when Dasterian had lived.

Jahra picked up her pace. Perhaps Dasterian's meticulous accounts were not too bad a place to start, after all.


	3. White: Thrice Is Enough ::part 1::

**Thrice is enough**_ (Part 1)_

"Pardon me, Aes Sedai. Do you have a moment?"

Lomiel Barbonel heard the voice and caught sight of a uniform. She had no moments to spare on _guardsmen_. She robed herself in icy White Ajah serenity – which usually made people back off – and drew breath to excuse herself.

But he was not a simple guardsman, but a guard _captain_. Not so easy to wave aside.

"I could use an Aes Sedai's wisdom," he said, and offered her a rough version of a noble's bow.

"Is that so?" murmured Lomiel expressionlessly.

"I have… a youth in my care. A talented boy. But he's sick."

Lomiel sighed. "I suppose you are unaware that it is the _Yellow_ Ajah who specialize in healing? I am of the White Ajah. However, Mellyris Davun, the Aes Sedai advisor of your lord… she wears a yellow shawl."

Lomiel could not lie, and knowing what she did she found it difficult to say "is of the Yellow Ajah". Mellyris Davun had served the _Black_ for decades. Protocol on what Ajah she actually belonged to under the circumstances was… dim. She did however wear a yellow shawl. Even now, when she was dead. She still _wore_ her yellow shawl.

Lomiel enjoyed word games. They were like puzzles.

"Mellyris Sedai… never has the time," the captain said, surprisingly delicately, and sent a glance to the side as if to make sure Mellyris was not hanging over his shoulder. "She doesn't take… _kindly_… to interruptions."

Of course Mellyris had not. She had been a selfish, narcissistic, and thoroughly arrogant woman, with no more actual talent than a bed bug, but an odd way of always ending up on the right side of things. She would have been too busy pressuring her Black Ajah informants and stealing from that doddering old lord. Lomiel had done the lord and the Tower a favour in killing her. But neither Tower nor lord was likely to see it that way.

Fortunately, Mellyris _appeared_ to have died of old age while dozing in her armchair. It had been one of Lomiel's more easily camouflaged murders.

"And you think I _like_ interruptions, captain..?"

"Captain Angur," he supplied. "And I hope you do. See, I've _met_ Aes Sedai who _helped_. I owe one my life. I was hurt bad and was healed. An Aes Sedai came out of the swirling dust like out of a dream, and before I knew it –" He glanced up, saw the cool expression on Lomiel's face, and suddenly blushed, which he tried to hide in a cough.

Disturbing to see a grown man blush like that. Lomiel wondered what else, besides the healing, had occurred. It _must_ have been a _Green_.

Angur went on. "So _some_ Aes Sedai _do_ help us common folk. I was hoping you'd be one of them."

Lomiel sighed internally. Oh, very well. She was not to appear in a hurry to leave, so perhaps it dawdling over some sick guardsman would work in her favour. "I may have a moment or two to offer you, captain Angur."

He breathed out a relief so heavy he should have been staggering under its weight. "Thank you, Aes Sedai –"

"Lomiel Tarbonel is my name."

"Thank you, Lomiel Sedai. Please, come with me." With another sketchy bow, he led the way towards the drill area, where the guardsmen were practicing. Many of them sweated in the heat and went bare-chested, and in one area wooden swords knocked loudly against each other, accompanied by the clang of steel blades from the neighbouring group, and the dull thud of fists from closer to the barracks. Some stood alone, practicing the forms and stances of both armed and unarmed combat, and still others were dragging out targets in preparation for archery training.

Lomiel watched with a professional interest. None of the drilling soldiers were truly bad, but some she gave no more than a hasty glance before moving on. Two of those wielding wooden blades showed true potential, but both were very young. The ones wielding steel practice blades were generally older. A gnarled soldier caught her eye for his easy economy of movement, but he was too old. A pale-haired man displayed quite remarkable reflexes as he avoided his opponent's darting knives. Another, tall and one of the few with a shirt on, danced with a blademaster's lazy ease. And a youngster… she paused, and watched a young dark-haired man who flowed between the forms in perfect balance, all controlled strength and solid confidence.

_That one_ was worth investigation.

Tergal, her Warder, had died four years previously. It near put the tears back in her eyes just to remember it, but as it had been after the death of Petryn, her first Warder, it was time to replace him. She dared not go long without. Dared not, and… she _missed_ having a Warder. Someone to watch her back. Someone she could trust… Light, how she missed having someone to _trust_.

"Haqon, _here_!" bellowed the captain. "And for the sake of the Light, get a shirt. There are ladies present."

The very same dark-haired youngster she had been watching saluted, and headed for the weapon racks. On the way he passed a few others – and they pulled away. Some of them made signs to ward off the Dark One.

Lomiel frowned – what in the world..?

Haqon set the blade in place on the rack, and reached for a shirt which hung nearby.

"Watch this," murmured the captain, crossing his arms over his chest.

The young man touched the shirt, and pulled his hand back empty. He touched it again, and pulled it back empty. Again. Again. Again… setting his jaw, the muscles of his back and arm playing under his skin as he tensed and focused, he reached – trembling – to touch it again… and jerked his hand back empty. Again.

"Whenever he's to touch something," captain Angur explained, "_this_ happens. If he's to open a door, pick something up, write a letter… even sometimes when he walks past something. Like doorways."

Lomiel saw the problem. A pity. Of the guardsmen in sight, young Haqon had been the best. He moved like a snake. A blade-master in the making, had been her thought. Truly a pity. But not all hope was lost – Lomiel was not one to give up easy. Solutions could be found to any problem if you chewed it long enough. And this Haqon would be worth some chewing. "How long has he been like this?"

Captain Angur shrugged. "I'm not sure. His father – the last captain – died three years ago, and he took off to join the Whitecloaks. I haven't –"

"_Whitecloaks_?" whispered Lomiel, unable to stop herself from glancing at the captain, her composure momentarily rocked.

"Yeah," said Angur. "The Children of the Light. Begging pardon for my bad manners, Aes Sedai, but…" He spat.

The captain's manners were the last thing on Lomiel's mind. "You know that Whitecloaks view all Aes Sedai as servants of the Dark One? If this lad serves with them…"

"He deserted."

"Why?"

"Apparently things had been going well. As I said, he's a good lad. Good swordsman, does as he's told without whining or arguing. So quick as that, he was up soldiering for the Hand of the Light… when _this_ began. He said he tried hiding it, but it kept getting worse, and when he heard his superiors talk about him being touched by the Dark One, he decided to leave while he could."

"Clever of him."

"That's what I thought, too. Bloody Whitecloaks would probably have hung him."

"Likely."

"Anyway, he came back here. No-one here's talking about hanging the lad, but as you see…" Angur's brow furrowed. "They began whispering just after he got back. Just the younger ones at first. But now, most of them whisper. And they've begun warding him off, not speaking to him. I worry…" He gave a jerk off his head, dismissing the thought, and went on in a more matter-of-fact voice: "His father was my commander, and my comrade-in-arms since we were both dotted with pimples. So now I feel sort of responsible for the boy." He raised his voice. "Haqon, get a move on! Leave the bloody shirt."

Haqon kept his routine – touch, pull back, touch, pull back – as if he hadn't heard. He was trembling visibly now from the effort.

"Worse than usual today," said Angur and scratched his moustache. "Shall I fetch him, Aes Sedai? Usually he snaps out of it if you whack him over the head."

Lomiel gave her head the tiniest of shakes. "That won't be necessary, captain," she said. "Let's see how long it takes him."

"Very well, Aes Sedai," the captain said, and stuck his thumbs inside his belt, probably to keep his hands steady. "But tell me… were the Whitecloaks right?" He spat again, and raised a hand as if to sign a ward against the Shadow – but determinately lowered it again. "Has the Dark One gotten into the boy?"

"What Haqon has is called a _compulsion_," Lomiel said softly. "It's rare, but it's not unheard of. I don't believe it's the Dark One's taint. And he isn't _Channelling_, either."

"Can you cure him?"

"It would take time, if it's even possible."

"You can't just… _heal_ him, and it'll go away?"

"No. He's not physically hurt."

Angur sighed heavily. "A pity. See, he's holed up with me and my wife for the time, but I can't afford to keep him. Half the time my wife complains of how he's eating for four grown men, and half the time she's fretting that he's growing skinny, and wants to give him an extra share." Angur shook his head in rueful fondness – over the boy as much as over the wife. "He trains from morning till night, since for some reason, he's fine while he's training. So he builds quite the appetite."

"I saw him. Impressive."

"He trains the others, too," Angur said, a touch of pride in his voice. "Those who aren't spooked by him. Has it from his papa, I'd say. I'd recruit him for the guard in a moment, but I can't. They're whispering too loudly by now. And guardsmen need to be able to _open doors_."

Lomiel was very careful to keep hold of her serenity. They wanted rid of the lad? Just as she was seeking a Warder?

If – _if_ – she could subdue this compulsion of his, he would be perfect. Young enough to be trainable, skilled enough to qualify. A year or two under the drill masters in the Tower, and he would have a heron on his blade. Lomiel could tell. She had a good eye. Even some of the Greens had admitted to that.

But if he had served with the Whitecloaks… he might well refuse to be bonded. She would have to win him over.

"May I try something?" she asked Angur.

"Go ahead, Aes Sedai."

Lomiel crossed the drill yard, ignoring the practicing men and boys – even though many of them paused to watch her, and some of them offered clumsy bows. She approached Haqon until she stood right beside him – he shot her a nervous glance, but did not stop what he was doing. Touch, pull back. Touch, pull back. His face was twisted with near-panicking frustration.

Lomiel prepared a simple weave of Spirit, with a single thread of Fire, and laid it on him. She knew that the Blues had a weave to inspire fear. The Whites had one to make people _see reason_, which was much more useful. She touched his arm. "Think, Haqon," she said suggestively. "I'd say thrice is enough."

He stared at her, baffled, and his hand stopped moving.

"Go on," she urged. "Try it. _Thrice_."

He tried. He touched the shirt once, twice, and – he swallowed – and grasped it.

"Incredible," said Angur, who had followed just behind Lomiel. "Go on, boy. Put your shirt on for the lady. And thank her."

Haqon stammered a thanks and hastily drew the shirt over his head.

"And bow," instructed Angur. "Don't you recognize an Aes Sedai's face?"

"_Aes_ –" began Haqon in a hiss, drawing back a step and reaching for the practice blade.

Angur smacked the back of his head. "Don't you show the lady any disrespect, boy!"

Haqon's eyes were baleful as he looked up. "Aes Sedai are _witches_ –"

"Get that Whitecloak foolery out of your head!" barked Angur. "Bloody Whitecloaks said the Dark One had gotten into you too, same as the Aes Sedai, or have you forgotten?"

Haqon straightened, his eyes near as dark as his hair. He drew himself up. He wasn't a very tall lad, but solidly built, and when he squared his shoulders he cut a figure most people would think twice before they trifled with.

Still, Angur's wife had been right. He looked much too haggard for someone so young. An extra meal or two would do him nothing but good.

"My thousand pardons, Aes Sedai," he gritted.

"Lomiel Sedai offered to help you with your… condition," Angur said.

"I don't want her foul magics _touching_ me," Haqon replied, very softly.

Lomiel gestured to stay Angur as the captain took a step forward and raised a threatening hand. Haqon glared at them both.

"Whitecloaks are notoriously close-minded, captain. Let's not waste time _debating_ with one. He will need to change his mind on his own. Haqon, I _will_ be able to help you, if you choose to let me. Likely not completely _cure_ you, but _simplify_ matters considerably."

"Will that be enough for me to join the guard?"

"I don't know."

Angur lowered his voice. "Haqon, you couldn't stay here anyway. You know people are _talking_. But if the kind Lomiel Sedai can help you, I'll find you a place somewhere else–"

Lomiel raised a hand, and the captain silenced. "I have a place for him," she said. "Something which would make it even easier to treat his condition. I'd like to make him my Warder."

"No!" snarled Haqon. His hand flew out, snatched the practice blade, and he flowed into a defensive stance.

"Put up sword," ordered Angur in a growl. His eyes had widened at Lomiel's words, but he recovered quickly. "For love of the Light, boy. The lady's showing you favour!" His face shone with pride, as if it was his own son Lomiel had favoured. He _did_ apparently care for the boy.

"She's –"

"I said, _put up sword_!"

Haqon shoved the practice sword back onto the rack.

Lomiel stood very still, enveloped in her practiced White Ajah serenity. But her thoughts were whirling. "When you feel threatened, Haqon, you don't..?"

"When I practice or when I fight, I'm fine," snarled Haqon.

"But how about when you mean to eat?" Lomiel wondered. "Do you need to touch your fork and knife again and again and again before you can even pick them up?"

"I spend a lot of time –"

"Is it difficult to dress in the morning?"

"It just takes _time_ –"

"How many times do your feet tap the floor before you can put them down and leave your bed? And can you pick up your practice sword easily in the morning, or only when you feel threatened?"

"How is this your business?" gritted Haqon, his fists beginning to clench.

"I can help you. I can keep you from standing there tapping your shirt a hundred times before you can grasp it."

"And how would you do that? What Shadow-spawned trickery would you –"

"I'll show you." She spread her arms wide. He had a temper. That was useful. That could be honed into as deadly a weapon as a blade. She reached towards the practice rack, swept a steel sword from it, and – Haqon drew back with a hiss, which she ignored – and offered it out to him, letting it rest horizontally across both her hands. "Here, Haqon. Take it."

He stared at her.

"Go ahead."

Without taking his suspicious green eyes off her, Haqon reached for the blade. He touched it, and his hand winced back. He grimly tried again. Again. Again. Again.

Lomiel waited.

Again. Again – and he folded his gaze away from her. Again. Again. He closed his eyes while his hand mechanically reached out, jerked back, and repeated.

Lomiel closed one hand about the blade – a practice blade was not that sharp along the edges – and set the free hand to his arm. She laid another _see-reason_ weave over him, and whispered her suggestion. "Thrice is enough, lad."

Once, twice, thrice, and he grasped the sword. He met her eyes. Relief and almost childish gratitude warred with suspicion and fear.

"Well, boy. Will you let me help you? Let me bond you Warder –"

He jerked back from her touch. "Why don't I just run you through instead, witch?"

"Because you _want_ my help," Lomiel said, unflinching, even when he levelled the sword at her. He did not frighten her in the slightest. She had been threatened by worse.

After a moment. Haqon lowered the sword. "I don't want to serve a _witch_."

"Get that Whitecloak cock-and-bull out of your head, lad," scoffed Angur. "It's an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Your father would be proud. And besides, where else will you go? Back to the _Hand of the Light_?"

"I'd –"

"They wanted to hang you for the Dark One's taint. Have you forgotten?"

Haqon swallowed. He began shaking his head, as if in denial. Lomiel waited, and considered weaving another _see-reason_. She was not against a tad of cheating when it grew necessary.

But before she could make up her mind he had tossed down the sword, snarled a "No!", and fled across the practice yard.

"Blood and bloody _ashes_," snarled Angur – then cast a hasty glance at Lomiel, and hastily bowed and added; "Begging pardon, Aes Sedai. Shall I –"

Lomiel stifled a sigh, and made certain her cool composure was firm in place. "Let him go, captain Angur," she crisped. "Let us talk. Do _you_ mind my taking the boy?"

"I'd be thrilled to know him a Warder, Aes Sedai," grinned Angur and bowed again. _Again_! How could a man who bowed so often be so _bad_ at it? "And his papa would be, too. He'd have been so puffed up he'd be impossible to talk to for years."

"Very good. Then there are two ways of doing this. The first one will have me pleading, and I will not do it. It would likely be a waste of time. So instead, I will be on my way. You know my name, captain. If you do manage to convince the boy – and he will listen to you better than he ever would to me – send him to the Tower." She dipped her hand to a pouch on her belt. "One more thing." She pulled out two Tar Valon gold coins, and Angur's eyes went wide. "To compensate your kindness to the lad. Do allow your wife to feed him properly. He _is_ skinny."

He took the coins, and bobbed another bow. "I'll – I _will_, Aes Sedai. Thank you!" He straightened, and sent a dark look after Haqon. "And he'll be off towards the Tower before the week's out, you have my _word_."

Lomiel smiled, and wished she could have believed him.

Author's Note:

Part 2 will be along shortly. Until then, kindly take a moment to scribble a review. It'd make me very happy.


	4. White: Thrice Is Enough ::part 2::

**Thrice is enough **_(Part 2)_

Lomiel had thought that his fleeing back would be the last she ever saw of young Haqon. A pity, but the Wheel wove as the Wheel willed, and that was that.

But two days after her return to the Tower, a Novice knocked on her door and announced that a young man with a sour expression had asked for her by name. He had presented himself as Haqon Melduan. Lomiel told the girl to bring him up – and to knock and open the door for him when she let him in.

She seated herself to wait in her favourite chair, and casually stirred and heated a cup of tea with a twin flow of Air and Fire.

He came in looking exactly as she recalled him, if somewhat more clothed than in the practice yard. His garments were not of the most stylish cut, but new and neat, practical, and as clean as one might expect from someone who – judging by the smell – had spent a few days in the saddle. His dark brown hair was tied back in a knot, and his green eyes sharp as he looked around.

He looked around like a man expecting to see something which would make him jump. Lomiel smiled. So he was not quite past his Whitecloak beliefs of witches. Very well. She had not expected him to be.

He also carried a purpling bruise over his left cheekbone, which spread down to his jaw and up around his eye.

She studied him and drank from her cup, and he stood there, still as a statue, and watched her warily.

"Welcome, lad," she said finally. "Tea?"

"Thank you, Aes Sedai, but no."

"Don't be silly. There's a second cup over on the counter."

He clapped his heels together – a very military behaviour which she would need to work out of him – and marched to the counter. He reached for a cup – reached again – and again –

"Light, I'd already forgotten," murmured Lomiel. She rose and went to his side.

As soon as she was beside him he snatched hold of the cup, and his other hand went to his belt knife.

She ignored that, and ignored his startled glare, and helped him pour tea, heated it for him with a flow of Fire. Then she returned to her chair, while gesturing at a chair opposite from her. "Sit. Are you here for the reason I hope?"

Haqon gave a terse nod and sat down. "I came with Mellyris Sedai's escort. She died. Everyone knew she was old, but no one had thought… I came with the escort. But… I came to stay."

"I'm glad. What changed your mind? Did captain Angur convince you?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"He gave you that bruise?"

"No. He told my mother. Mother gave me the bruise."

"Your mother..? Since captain Angur took care of you, I assumed she was dead."

"My mother is remarried to a man who wants nothing to do with me. But he takes good care of her, so I stay out of their way." He touched his cheek thoughtfully. "Mother told me I should be grateful anyone was willing to help me, not to mention able."

"May I heal that for you?"

He hesitated, looking at her. All of a sudden he looked very young, very lost, and very frightened. He swallowed, his eyes darted down to stare at his cup, before being defiantly raised again. Then the defiance melted out of them. When he finally nodded consent she motioned him forwards, and he came to kneel before her.

"How old are you, boy?" she asked as she set her fingers to his cheek.

"Nineteen." He hissed as the healing shivered through him.

"I remember being nineteen," she said, settling back in her chair. She let him remain on the floor, and without permission, he made no motion to rise. A good lad. "A confusing age."

"How old are you, Aes Sedai?"

"That's a question you must never ask one of the sisters, ever again," she warned him sharply. "It's considered a great rudeness."

"I understand, Aes Sedai."

"If you're to be my Warder, boy, you may call me Lomiel."

"Lomiel, then." Another curt glare. "And I would prefer not to be called 'boy' or 'lad'."

Lomiel blinked, but was not displeased. She even let a smile break her White Ajah serenity. "Agreed. Well, while you're conveniently seated before me… the rules require me to ask." She considered a see-reason weave, but decided against it. It was likely unnecessary by now. "Haqon, do you agree to be bonded my Warder?"

Haqon's voice reminded Lomiel of the creak of breaking ice, soft as if heard from a great distance. "Light help me and keep me safe. Yes. I agree."

Quickly, before he could change his mind, Lomiel set her hand to his bowed head. She spun the Warder weave easily and let it sink into him.

An echo of him took shape in the back of her head. His mind was the same whirl of emotions she saw in his green eyes: surprise, wonder, and quickly receding fear – she wondered what he felt through the bond which spurred that. Was she really so non-threatening?

He laid a hand to his head. "I… I can feel –"

"I am yours, now," she confirmed. "You'll share my mind, my joys, my pain, as I will share yours. If I die, a part of you will die. If you die, a part of me will die. For like I am yours, you are mine." She tapped her own head. "You're in here."

He blushed.

She wove a nudge – a Green had shown her that when Tergal had caused her trouble – and touched it to his bond. She had considered trying to force the compulsion from him completely, but she suspected he would just be caught between the two if he did, drawn as strongly by her order as he was by his compulsion, immobilized by opposing absolutes. A tad of lenience would be better. "And Haqon? In the future, thrice will be enough."

There was wonder in his voice. "Yes, Lomiel Sedai."

She studied him again. He looked taken aback, as if some plan of his had been foiled. His bond betrayed a hint of anxious disappointment. She had considered this, too. She had thought it through carefully. A former Whitecloak as Warder? A servant of the Hand of the Light, in the Tower?

He came to her door believing her a witch and a servant of the Dark, and yet he came. He would learn better in time, but for now, his Whitecloak indoctrination remained.

Fortunately for Lomiel, Whitecloaks were predictable. She wove another nudge, touched it to his bond, and said; "Haqon. You will not try to assassinate the Amyrlin Seat."

He gaped at her in astonishment. "H-how –"

How? Lomiel had dealt with Whitecloaks before. She smiled again, broader this time, nearly laughing. For someone in her line of business, Whitecloaks had their uses. They were a blunt weapon, but easily guided. She had betrayed three Black sisters to them before her face grew too ageless and she no longer dared deal with them, and one since, when desperation left her no other choice. After all, many Whitecloaks did not recognize an Aes Sedai's face.

"Can – can you read my thoughts?" Fear touched him anew as he said so.

"Not more than you can mine," Lomiel told him. "But I know Whitecloaks. Their fondest dream is to kill the Amyrlin Seat and break the Tower. And there are no more fanatic Whitecloaks than those in the Hand of the Light. I'll have my eye on you, Haqon."

A teenage defiance settled across his face. "How would you stop me? You can't watch me all day, all night."

"This," Lomiel said, pointing to his head, and then to her own, "says I can. I know where you are, I'll learn to figure what you're doing, and I can tell you what to do, and what not to do. I can coerce you, Haqon. Keep that in mind. But I won't unless I must."

He glared at her. He was still on his knees before her, but he glared worthy of a king on his throne. A boy king – a child's mutiny.

"First order of business will be to put you through Warder training," she told him. "You'll like that. Keep your mouth shut, and the Master of Arms will like you. Get him to like you and he'll train you, and if you work hard you'll have a Heron on your blade before the year is out. Now wouldn't that be nice?"

His glare softened somewhat.

"But before that, we have more pressing issues. I am expecting a visitor. Now listen closely. You believe all Aes Sedai to be servants of the Shadow. All are not, but some are." The taste in her mouth grew foul, and Lomiel had to stifle an urge to spit. "They call themselves the Black Ajah. I make it my life's work to find these sisters and eliminate them."

He looked dubious, likely trying to make sense of her bond, trying to read the lie or truth in her words through her emotions. "You just kill them?"

"Had I reported them they would have slipped away. There's no legal snare tight enough. The Tower denies their existence, while behind our backs they thrive. Take Mellyris Sedai, for instance. She was robbing your former lord of every spare copper, and handed as much of it over to the Shadow's cause as she put in her own pocket. Her –"

"You killed Mellyris Sedai?" His hand went to his belt knife again.

"I did," Lomiel said, and reached down to take his hand from the blade. "Rather neatly, if I may say so myself."

He just stared at her.

"The woman was of the Black, and she would have been an embarrassment to the Tower if anyone ever went over her accountings."

"How do I know you're not the Black Ajah, and Mellyris Sedai was –"

Lomiel shrugged. "Hope that I'm not. You're bonded now. If I turn out Black, you're along for the ride. And how you'll know? Blacks can lie. Other than that, you'll have to observe and make up your mind whether or not you trust me."

"Fair enough," said Haqon after a moment.

Lomiel nodded. "Don't mention the Black Ajah to anyone, Haqon. Most don't want to know that they exist. Since I know, I see it as my duty to counterwork them. That, and… they murdered my best friend. And executed my first Warder." Lomiel determinately steeled her outer White Ajah serenity. Adenda was dead, and would be avenged in due course, and she accepted that as fact. But oh, Petryn. All those years ago and she could still see his eyes as the life was squeezed out of him. She could still feel his pain, his denial of it, his impotent fury and growing despair, his sadness that he had failed, failed to protect her.

Dearest Petryn. She would avenge him, too.

"Aes Se – I mean – Lomiel?"

Lomiel blinked out of her thoughts and looked at him. "Yes?"

"Was it recently?"

"No. It was very long ago. But some things are difficult to forget." She met his eyes, and realised that his face, as his bond, had changed. It was amazing to see how quickly bonding would change someone. A sort of fondness followed knowing someone's every emotion and sensation. A moment ago he had thought her a servant of the Shadow, but now he was concerned. He might still not be convinced that she was no Darkfriend, but he couldn't stop the sympathy.

Then there was anger – anger that anyone had made her sad.

Lomiel wanted to smirk. Oh, he would make a fine Warder.

"Didn't you tell anyone?"

"No. At the time, I didn't dare. And no one would have believed me."

"But… you claim Aes Sedai can't lie. They would have had to believe you."

"We may utter an untruth if we believe it true. I wouldn't have been the first Aes Sedai caught in 'delusions' after losing a Warder. It's a traumatizing experience. They would have pitted me, patted my head, and sent me on an extended vacation somewhere out of the way. Where the Blacks would have followed me and killed me. No. I decided on another path. I made sure I could explain everything aside –"

"But if you can't lie, how..?"

"Foresight. As it was, I never needed to tell anyone. I was weeping so hard they told me I needn't talk of it. But I had a story prepared. I…" She paused and steeled herself against further tears – even began an old Novice exercise. She was a rosebud, opening to the sun. She was stillness, serenity, acceptance… and she abandoned the exercise. Bloody things never worked anyway. She drew breath and barged on. "Petryn. My Warder. I had stabbed his body with a sword before I burned it. Had anyone asked how he died, I would have answered that we had been ambushed, which was true. I would have said he tried to defend me, which was true, but that he took a blade to the back. Which was true – and no one would have asked if that blade came before or after he died. I would have said the assailant was dressed in clothes as ragged as those of a roadside robber, but that I did not see her face. Which was true, also. I looked a mess. I'd been burnt and beaten and had crawled through mud. I was aching body and soul and could barely stand. But I lived."

Haqon had no answer for that.

Lomiel realised that her eyes were blazing, and quickly enveloped herself in White Ajah serenity again. She made certain her voice was calm, too. "I assume you joined the Children of the Light to fight the Shadow. Being my Warder gives you the chance to bite deeper into the ranks of Darkfriends than any Whitecloak ever does. Now then. The name of my guest is Keshil al'Daer, of the Red Ajah. And the Black. She believes she uses me as an informant, and I do give her snippets of information now and then. But mostly I use her for information. Carefully, of course."

"You give her information?" growled Haqon. "Though you know she is Black?"

"That's right. That's my deal with the Dark One," whispered Lomiel, and the glare she sent through her serenity made him flinch. "I can't fight them without knowing them. And there's a price to knowing them. I sacrifice the little things. Don't judge me, Haqon. You don't know enough to judge me."

He murmured something which might have been an excuse. She accepted it. She touched his cheek. "Keshil Sedai is our enemy, yes, but for now she must be tolerated. She's a sadistic, violent bitch and deserves to die, but for now she is of use. She is also likely the most dangerous person you've ever met, and I don't think you've really grasped the concept of a Darkfriend wielding the Power, but you will learn. Do you understand?"

"I understand that I don't understand," Haqon said carefully.

Lomiel nodded. "Good. Then you will learn quickly."

"I suppose you don't plan on telling her everything? If you told her of Mellyris Sedai… wouldn't she be angry?"

"Worse; she would see how I'm not the frightened hen she's always thought me. She'd realise I'm a fox dressed in beak and feathers, and for that alone she'd kill me. She'd kill us both. She's much stronger than me in the Power, and in a direct confrontation I won't stand a chance. Neither would you. Remember that, if you have any sudden ideas."

"But how do you not tell her?"

"Very, very carefully, Haqon. Listen and learn. And for the sake of the Light, don't tell her anything. A tad of insolence would not be misplaced, even thought I'll have to tell you off for every rude word. And she might punish you for it."

He smiled like a hunting wolf. "I can live with that."

He would learn better, Lomiel thought. There was never any use in attracting more grief than necessary, but the young seemed to do it out of principle. "And do not be alarmed at my behaviour. I put on quite a show for Keshil. I allow her to bully me, to believe me nicely broken in. But as long as my bond remains calm, nothing is amiss. Now. Drink your tea, and we wait."

They did not wait for long. Keshil's knock on the door was firm and came before Lomiel's cup was half empty. She half rose to open the door, but Haqon was faster – he leapt to his feet, motioned for her to stay seated, and went to open the door. He reached for the handle, his hand only slightly trembling, and touched it thrice before grasping it.

Keshil was a blonde woman in a blood red dress with so much gold embroidery on her sleeves it was a wonder she could lift her arms. She wore a regal countenance and her eyes were eternally sharp; she downright looked Black Ajah.

"Don't tell me," Keshil began. Her voice was like a soft caress which any moment might turn brutal and start wringing necks. She looked Haqon up and down with a stare which would have made most people back away, but Haqon's bond grew an iron coat and he did not budge. He just stared back, probably balefully. Lomiel could not see – from her armchair in the sitting room, she saw only his back.

Keshil smiled, reaching to touch his nose – now he jerked back as if she had tried to prick him with a fire iron. "You're the new Warder."

"Yes," Haqon replied stiffly.

"Rudeness," murmured Keshil. "How quaint. How unhealthy. Out of my way. Lomiel would have told you to expect me."

Haqon stepped aside, and Keshil glided past him. She flicked a finger, a wisp of Air, and Haqon grunted as it hit his stomach and shoved him back and onto the floor, rolled him away and into the wall.

"Teach him manners, Lomiel," suggested Keshil, coming into the sitting room and choosing the same seat on the sofa she always took. Lomiel knew that she did not want tea, but still offered it, and Keshil declined with a derisive snort.

Haqon looked murderous as he began scrambling to his feet, reaching for his belt knife – Lomiel shot him a forbidding stare, and he stopped dead in his tracks. After a moment, he shoved the door closed behind Keshil, and stalked over to stand beside Lomiel's armchair. He crossed his arms over his chest and scowled.

Keshil raised her eyebrows. Then she ignored him, and turned to Lomiel. "You left the Tower. Without my permission."

"I do have other duties than to you, Keshil," Lomiel squeaked. She kept her eyes down and made her hands smooth her skirts, again and again, in a useless battle against imaginary wrinkles. "I have White Ajah business to attend to." In addition to her personal crusade.

"Doing what?"

"Meeting with eyes and ears," Lomiel offered timidly, and averted her gaze.

"I'm going to check that story," warned Keshil with an up-nosed scowl. "Where? Which ones?"

Lomiel told her. Names, places, tidbits of received information. It did not matter. The White Ajah head of eyes and ears, Covaide, was Black. Lomiel was her assistant.

Lomiel would kill her as soon as she had figured out how to get away with it.

Or perhaps not. Being Covaide's assistant allowed Lomiel to hide things. Carefully. When necessary. And in the past decades the White Ajah network of eyes and ears had grown larger than any but Lomiel knew.

But Covaide was sly, and it was a small miracle that she had not yet caught on. Lomiel was thankful that Covaide knew nothing of her interaction with Keshil – something Keshil kept to herself – and that Keshil had not a glimmer of the Covaide's smarts.

"Did you need me for anything today, Keshil?" Lomiel asked. She had learned that it was better to rush the point of Keshil's visit than to let the woman question her freely. Keshil was no talented questioner, but even she might have a sudden stroke of inspiration. And she might well go on asking nonsense just for the joy of bullying someone.

"Not so fast, Lomiel," Keshil admonished. She smiled. "I came to see what you were up to, as you know. But now this boy of yours caught my interest. Where is he from?"

"The bloody Hand of the Light itself," snapped Haqon.

"Easy," Lomiel warned him softly, her back stiffening. A tad of insolence, she had said. A tad!

"Oh, truly?" murmured Keshil, a dangerous light in her eyes as she folded her hands on her lap and faced Haqon. "Well. As blunt a lie as any."

Lomiel silently hoped the boy would show sense. Sense? He was nineteen. Might as well hope for snow in the Aiel Waste.

Keshil went on. "How about I teach you to keep your trap closed in the presence of your betters? I was addressing your Aes Sedai. If Lomiel won't teach you manners, boy, believe me: I will."

"Let me do it, please Keshil," Lomiel whispered. "He's young. He doesn't know better."

"Teach him quickly. Next time he snaps at me, I'll snap his fingers." She studied Haqon. "What's your name, boy?"

"None of your bloody business," snapped Haqon.

"More rudeness." Keshil waggled an admonishing finger, and Haqon hissed as flows of Air wrapped themselves around him. A gag was shoved into his mouth, and with another wave of Keshil's hand – pain shot through his bond as two of his fingers broke.

He bit hard down on the flow of Air in his mouth, but he did not scream. He breathed hard, and his eyes bulged, and Lomiel hurt into her soul to see it. But if he did not scream, she would not weep.

Keshil tightened the flows around him until he could hardly breathe, either.

Just like Petryn. Lomiel felt a lump in her throat, a hitch in her own breath. Light, no. There was no need to fake the fear in her voice. "Keshil, please, let him be," she begged. For effect, she made her eyes wide and large, and knotted her hands into her skirts.

"Give me a reason, and I might," said Keshil. She rose and strode towards the two. "Then again, I might not. Oh, this does bring back memories! Wasn't this how that first Warder of yours died, Lomiel? The fool tried to defend you and that Brown. Against me." She did touch Haqon's nose now, and her smile was predatory. "Which was never a good idea. Remember that, boy."

A whirl of anger swept through the fear and pain in Haqon's bond. Apparently he didn't appreciate the Black Ajah telling him what to do. But his face remained firm in a scowl. Keshil began tightening the bonds, and he squirmed, touched by panic.

Lomiel drew breath and lowered her voice to a whisper. "But… Keshil. If you killed him… what would I tell people? I can't lie, Keshil. There are people who know he's here. If they asked…"

With a vexed wave of her hand, Keshil let Haqon free. "The next time I come," she muttered, "he had better have improved his manners."

"I'll make sure of it, Keshil, I promise," squeaked Lomiel, and rose to curtsy. "I promise. Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Even if I let him live, it doesn't mean I won't break a few of his bones." She wrapped Haqon up again, with a twirling motion of her hand for effect, and the flows jerked him off his feet and down to the floor. Lomiel flinched as he hit it – harder than he should have from a mere fall – and opened her mouth. Keshil held up a hand. "Not a word, Lomiel, or I'll crack every rib he's got."

Lomiel snapped her mouth shut. She wondered what Haqon could read from her bond now – anger? Fear?

She wasn't afraid of Keshil. That had passed long ago. Keshil was stronger than her in the Power, and Keshil was Black Ajah, but Keshil was a fool. The woman had tormented her for near fifty years now, without figuring out what she was actually doing? Keshil was as astute as an ox, and as subtle as a sledgehammer, that was her great flaw, and Lomiel's great blessing. But Lomiel feared she might hurt the boy. She had left Tergal with bad bruises many times, even broken his bones, but Tergal had simply taken that as part of a day's work. Haqon was so young.

She knew what Haqon felt. Panic was overtaking his youthful defiance.

Keshil leaned over him, smiling broadly. "Now then. The next time I visit, I expect you to be a good boy. Listen to Lomiel Sedai and do exactly as she tells you, or I'm going to teach you about pain, and I'll keep at it until Lomiel faints. You haven't signed up for a nursery home, boy. Taking on a Warder's bond is signing up for a slow death, with fear and worry and agony every step of the way. And I can make it worse. Are we clear?"

Haqon's head jerked in a frantic nod. Keshil stepped over him and to the door. When she slammed it closed behind her, the flows around Haqon disappeared.

Lomiel was at his side in an instant. She folded to her knees at his head, set her fingers to his scalp, and delved and healed him, this time without asking permission. He gasped spun on the floor to face her, and caught her wrists in his hands. He had a strong grip, and he was holding on as if his life depended on it.

"Let go," Lomiel asked him, and met his wild eyes with calm. "You're hurting me."

He let go, and sat up, wrapping his arms around his knees. He began shivering, and set his chin to his knees and looked down on the floor.

"She frightened you," Lomiel said matter-of-factly. "I wish I could say there was no need to be frightened, but there is. I wish I could say I would protect you, but I can't; not from her, not from this. You're part of this now. I made you part of this, but I won't apologize for it. Remember. I've survived this hell-hole so far with nothing but wits and determination, and believe me, I'll look after your skin as closely as my own. She'll make you feel pain, but pain is nothing. She'll hurt you, but I can always heal you. She'll try to intimidate you, but fear is your enemy as much as she is. Don't let it control you."

He made no reply, just looked at her, a lost young lad who didn't know what to say. His rage was gone; it had been sizzling beneath the surface constantly, but now it was gone, and an emptiness remained, bordered by nagging fright and uncertainty.

She had taken his perceptions and put them on head, she had taken his worst fears and proved them true, and she had changed his life forever by bonding him, and now, nothing made sense any more.

She set a hand over his cheek, and smiled at him as warmly as she knew how. She knew her bond was warm – and that would be enough. "One hundred and twenty-five."

"What?" he asked in puzzlement.

"My age. One hundred and twenty-five."


	5. Grey: Out of the Flames

**Out Of The Flames**

There were many things about those two days which Masrogen could not remember, but the rest he could not forget.

It had begun as a negotiation like any other. Almost. Bessal had agreed to attend a meeting with a Grey Ajah informant in a small inconsequential town in western Amadicia. Masrogen had not liked the idea from the start: the town in question had a Whitecloak garrison. It was no larger than perhaps forty-fifty men. But Masrogen had a bad feeling.

Masrogen's bad feelings kept his hand nearer the hilt of his sword, but never kept Bessal from going where she pleased, when she pleased. His task was to keep her safe whatever she chose to do, not to _tell_ her what to do.

The sun had begun to set by the time they found the informant. He was a small man with a walking stick whose eyes twitched and whose greeting was gilded enough to accommodate the Amyrlin Seat herself. Masrogen had not liked him, and neither had Bessal, but Bessal was too much of a diplomat to show it, and Masrogen never showed anything at all. He trailed behind and searched the shadows as the informant and Bessal strolled on through the emptied streets, grimly determined that nothing should go wrong.

Which had included the bloody informant siding with the Whitecloaks, of course, but neither Bessal nor himself knew that before it was too late.

That was where Masrogen's memories began to grow fuzzy. The informant had taken a chance as Bessal turned her head, and struck her over the temple with his walking stick – Masrogen had been too far behind to stop him. Bessal had trusted the man that far. So had Masrogen. But trust was a bloody foolery.

A moment later there were Whitecloaks everywhere. He seemed to spend an eternity attempting to reach Bessal, but even if he could bull-rush and fight his way ahead, they could carry the unconscious Bessal away quicker. They were too many. Masrogen was a tall man, broad and strong, but after all, no more than a single man.

He found himself tossed into a holding cell. He bled and he staggered, but he rounded the small room again and again. Vision swam before his eyes, but he searched for a way out. Stone walls, doors, bars over the small window. The mortar between the stones was firm and would take an eternity to dig through.

Bessal was still unconscious. Light, at least she was still alive.

There was a racket like few somewhere outside his window, and in her same direction. Shouting voices, cheering and jeering crowds – not what Masrogen wanted to hear. Suddenly the whole town seemed awake. Why?

They had taken his sword and his dagger, and he had not been wearing armour, no more than a light shirt of mail. His head was heavy, full of fog, and he wanted to sink to the floor. Some corner of him noted that he was wounded, and he ignored it. He needed to get to Bessal. That was all he could think of; get out, and get to Bessal.

There was only one hope for getting out. He eyed the door. Wood, metal, did not exactly fit the doorway. Old hinges, but they had not creaked when the door was opened to toss him in. It looked solid, but it was worth an attempt. Actually, it was worth as many bloody attempts as proved necessary.

He braced himself and rushed shoulder-first into the door.

It was good to be big. The hinges gave and the door flew aside, and Masrogen rolled and came up facing two gaping Whitecloaks.

He supposed he must have defeated them somehow, for his next memory had him slipping through a crowd. In the dark, no one seemed to notice how he made his way ahead through the ranks of commoners, despite his size. He aimed for a small stage, where Whitecloaks stood in two orderly lines as if on parade, and a captain on a white horse loudly proclaimed some Whitecloak propaganda which didn't concern Masrogen in the least. Four more Whitecloaks stood guard around the stake where Bessal had been tied. She sagged in her ropes, head down, her long blond hair like a curtain fallen across her face.

They were going to burn her.

Masrogen made himself move slowly. Firewood was still being brought up, and the only flame in sight was the torch held by a man beside the captain, and likely nothing would be done before the captain stopped talking. He was very full of himself, that captain, and he might well go on glorifying himself and his men and banner for the rest of the night.

As for the crowd, most of them likely just wanted a good show.

When the captain finished talking Masrogen began to tremble, and suppressed an urge to scream and run ahead like a berserk. Scream and run and they would see him, and there were too many of them for him to fight them all. He had his sword back, but he was not going to take any chances. He would only get one chance.

The man with the torch began to move, and Masrogen kept to his slow advance, schooled himself to calm. If he moved too fast, he would attract attention. But then something that likely was oil was thrown across the firewood, and Masrogen picked up his pace.

He knew that he needed Bessal no more than simple _alive_. If she was hurt, she could be healed. If he was caught before he reached her, she would die. But to move slowly, to allow her to risk harm, was the hardest thing he had ever done.

The torch was cast down, and Masrogen began to shove people. Angry grunts and curses pursued him, but he was not the only man to strive for a better view.

Flames sprang out of the wood, red and golden and tall, shining up the square and making the crowd cheer and jeer all the more. Masrogen kept his own reins short. She was still alive. Still alive. Still bloody _alive_ and breathing, and if she was only harmed, she could be healed. But if he was caught, she would burn.

Then Bessal tossed her head up and gasped. Her bond flared aware in his head; pain, heat, confinement, and a burning, all-consuming need to _breathe_. She gasped, coughed, and gasped again, and her bond writhed with panic. It was tinged by exuberance and he knew she reached for the Source, but – but her eyes were wild and nothing seemed to be happening. She thrashed and twisted and coughed, gasped, coughed.

She could not quench the flames. She had said that once; she could not simply put a fire out. She needed to douse it with water, but to channel at all she needed to escape her panic, she needed to be able to _breathe_.

But she was choking.

He realised that the fire was not the danger. The smoke was the danger. The smoke, the heated air, would kill her before the flames, no matter how tall or red they were, or how they licked her clothing and teased her upraised face.

Masrogen threw caution aside and barged through the crowd at a run. They saw him now, but he was close.

In a moment he was before the fire. He barely registered the flames or the heat. He could only feel the bond, growing foggy, foggier, as Bessal strained for air and found smoke. Her eyes met his and she smiled just before they rolled back into her head and she sagged again. He reached and cut her bonds, and jerked her out of the flames.

His memories of the following moments abandoned him. He vaguely recalled taking the captain's white horse, although he could never remember how he managed it, and he remembered cursing vividly, hours later, when the horse broke beneath him and tumbled both him and his Aes Sedai to the dusty road. But he had only patchy recollections of the escape or the long ride.

The Whitecloaks had followed, but they had been on foot, and it had taken them too long to reach their own horses and organize a true pursuit. He had a head start, and he intended to make use of it. So when the horse broke, he laid Bessal over his shoulders and ran.

He had rolled her in his jacket and cloak to keep her warm, but that was all he could do for her. She needed a healer. Thank the Light she was still alive. Still alive. Still alive.

He was found by Besun not far from where they had parted that morning. He recognized the man's silhouette in the moonlight, but did not see his face. Apparently Besun saw more – he gave a nod and heeled his mount in among the trees. Masrogen sank to the forest floor, laid Bessal down, and tried to calm his breathing.

Somewhere along the way he must have stopped and attended his own wounds, likely aware that if he kept bleeding he would not be able to keep running, and if he did not keep running Bessal would die. Beneath his worn and cut clothing – he had abandoned the mail shirt to be able to run faster – he wore crude bandages around his chest, around one arm – crude because they had been applied in a hurry, not because he did not know how to apply them. He had even set a few stitches in the wounded thigh, beneath the bandage, to keep it together enough to run on, to try to keep some blood in. Light knew it had made him stumble. Light knew he had likely limped the entire way.

Besun quickly returned with his Aes Sedai, Nevien, on the pommel of his saddle. She slid down from her perch and kneeled by Bessal's head, unwrapping the cloak and jacket for a look before quickly re-wrapping them, and adding her own cloak.

"Bloody flames and flaming ashes," she growled, setting her fingers to her friend's scalp, in among what sooty blond hair remained to Bessal. Usually a neat woman, Nevien still cursed like a mercenary when there was cause. "What happened? Whitecloaks?"

Masrogen nodded. Besun set a hand to his shoulder and asked him how he was holding up, said he looked like three trips through the Blight, and he shrugged. He'd been worse. He'd been healed from worse.

And Bessal lived.

"In the name of the bloody _Lord_ –" Nevien cut herself short, bit her lip, and tears stained her eyes. Moonlight gleaming off those tears was the only part of her expression he could read in the dark. "Bloody Whitecloaks! I can't, Masrogen. I _can't_. The burns I can heal but – but not the lungs. I'm as likely to kill her as to save her. You need to continue. Cross the river, get into Altara. Remember Kodyn and Jenova Sedai, just beyond the border? They're _Yellow_."

Masrogen just stared at her.

His memories grew vague again. Ilvok, Nevien's second Warder, had arrived with his own and her horse. Masrogen must have been given Ilvok's tall gelding, for he remembered leaving the animal behind when it gave way beneath him, blood and foam in equal amounts from its nostrils. It hadn't mattered – he'd been almost at the river, and Bessal had still been alive.

How he had managed to cross the river without submerging her he did not know, but he had done it. If she had been wet, she would have been cold, and that could have killed her as surely as the burns. He himself had come out of the river dripping water just as the sun came over the horizon, but Bessal had been dry.

Well across the river he stole a horse from a farm, leaving three gold coins Nevien had given him, and rode the creature until it, too, fell. At least he must have – he could not recall it falling, but he had arrived without it.

He staggered into the gardens of Kodyn and Jenova Sedai, two retired, white-haired women who likely still served their Ajah as eyes and ears out in this remote corner, and when Kodyn had him lay Bessal down on a bed all his energy seemed to run out of him. He retreated, relieved to see the two old women fuss over Bessal. He drew back, sagged down against the wall, and soon his eyes closed and he fainted.

It did not matter. Bessal was safe.

When he next opened his eyes he was the one lying on his back on the bed, and as he looked about he found Besun. The other Warder looked rather subdued, but when Masrogen opened his eyes he smiled.

"You know," he said, "your Aes Sedai is upset with you. You made her worry." At Masrogen's confused blink, he waved a dismissive hand. "Jenova Sedai tells us she woke after her healing and asked for you. And you've fainted half-dead in a corner, barely any blood left in you, an infection in that leg of yours and in your burns and a fever running high. You didn't tell me you were _that_ wounded. You should have said. Nevien would have healed it for you, and you could have run the faster."

Masrogen closed his eyes. Besun knew him better than that. Besun knew he wasn't one for wasting words. He had managed without healing. Bessal _lived_. Yes – the bond in his head was unharmed, freed from pain.

Besun sat picking dirt from beneath his nails with his knife. "And Nevien took care of that false informant."

Something in the manner he said it made Masrogen look up. Something in his voice. Their eyes met, and Besun's darted aside. Masrogen waited.

"Light," Besun said finally. His voice was even lower now, tense. "I've never seen her so _furious_. She told the man why, and then she gagged and tied him and set his clothes on fire."

Masrogen frowned.

Besun gave a dusty laugh. "I – I didn't know she could do such things, with the oaths and all. But then again, they don't ever tell us much of what they can or can't do, do they? Don't even tell _us_."

Masrogen sat himself up. The fever was gone, but he felt weak, so he sat his back to the wall. He and Besun looked at one another. They were old friends, and understood each other well. Besun respected how Masrogen mostly kept silent. Masrogen listened as Besun spoke. Neither expected more or less.

"And she took care of the Whitecloak captain, too," Besun added as an afterthought. "She had Ilvok kidnap him, and bring him, and had him hanged in a rafter. Plus we found a group of Whitecloaks out in the woods, probably following you. They didn't seem very eager about it. But you don't need to worry about them, either."

Besun looked aside again. "I've never seen her so furious," he repeated. "To be truthful… she nearly frightened me. I'm glad I'm on her side. I wouldn't want to be her enemy."

"The man deserved it," Masrogen opined coldly. For his inner eye he could still see that walking stick connecting with Bessal's head.

"Did he?" Besun looked at him. "Well. I suppose he should be glad _you_ didn't get your hands on him."

Masrogen smiled, but Besun shook his head. "But no, Mas. No. If she'd had me or Ilvok kill the man, very well. Or bring him back for justice, very well. But she bloody burned him _alive_." He thought for a moment. "Don't tell anyone. Nevien told us to keep quiet. I just… thought you'd like to know. And I trust you. You will keep it to yourself, won't you?"

Masrogen considered – then nodded. To be honest, he didn't much care if the informant lived or died. Bessal was alive and well, and that was all he cared about.

Bessal was alive and well and coming in through the doorway. Besun quickly rose and bowed, murmuring an "honour to serve" before he slipped out.

"I felt you wake," Bessal greeted Masrogen simply. She set a tray loaded with food down on a nearby table. "How are you?"

"Healed," he told her.

But she eyed him critically, her arms crossed over her chest. "You know," she said, trying and failing to sound berating, "if you'd have asked Nevien for healing, your leg would have been fully restored. And you wouldn't have had those scars. Jenova and Kodyn were so busy with _me_, they didn't think to even look at _you_ before I asked about you. They're a bit senile, I think. But they're still excellent healers, if only they find out _in time_ that someone needs their help. As it is…"

Masrogen looked down at his hands. He had slick, featureless burn-scars from his fingertips and in irregular patterns up beyond his elbows. The skin on his palms had lost much of its ridges, the hard calluses from his many years wielding swords were much gone, and would need to be rebuilt. He could look forward to half a year of painful blisters before they returned. To ask Bessal to heal the blisters would just have made him start over yet again, so he would simply have to endure them.

She sat down on the side of the bed and gently took his wrists, studying the scarring. After a moment she raised her eyes to study his face instead. "You really pulled me out of the very flames, didn't you?"

Masrogen nodded.

She threw his arms around him, kissed his cheek, then buried her face against his shoulder. She felt perfectly safe and her bond was warm, both affectionate and... and a bit overwhelmed. "Thank you."

Masrogen returned the embrace wordlessly. But there was no need to thank him. What else were Warders for?

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

Author's Note:

Above little madness was likely inspired by the musical "Which Witch", and five days with the executioner's tune ("who do you want to burn? who do you want to set on fire?") echoing in my head. Applying this to WoT-verse, with Children of the Light burning Aes Sedai, my first thought was _no way, there'd be a Warder there to pull her back out_. So naturally I had to write it.

And yes, I know, Whitecloaks are more likely to hang people than burn them. But allow me some creative freedom. Hanging isn't half as much fun. (Except for the beginning of Pirates of the Caribbean III, which is simply marvelous ("Yo ho, all together / hoist the colours high / heave ho, thieves and beggars / never shall we die...").

More than that, this occurs before Ilvok learned the truth - which Besun never did - and before Nevien bonded Rill.


	6. White: Cutting Lomiel's Retirement Short

**Cutting Lomiel's Retirement Short**

She was on her knees, working in her garden, when the visitor arrived. She felt the presence of a woman holding the Power approach, slowly, carefully, curiously. Lomiel waited, continued her work, hummed softly to herself.

When the woman came close enough for her light footsteps on the soft earth to be heard, Lomiel spoke. "A fair day to you, Odenna Sedai. Forgive me if I don't rise and curtsey. It does pain this old hip of mine to bob up and down, and I would much like to finish my work."

She could almost feel the other Aes Sedai's flinch, and smiled. She was too old and wise to allow anyone to sneak up on her, but it always surprised people when she knew who was coming.

"Good day," replied Odenna stiffly, after a moment's pause. "You were… expecting me?"

"I was expecting _someone_," Lomiel said. "I just didn't know who, or exactly when." She sighed, set her tools in the nearby bucket, and climbed gingerly to her feet. "I assume you're here because of Keshil. You're in her Heart."

Odenna's face grew as grey as her hair, and her eyes turned hard as flint. "How did –"

"I know many things, girl," Lomiel told her. "I assume Keshil once ordered you, in the event of her most unfortunate demise, to find me and kill me? But knowing Keshil, she did not tell you _why_."

Lomiel could hardly help that she thought of the other as a girl. Odenna might have grey hair now, but Lomiel remembered a Novice who she had sat with many evenings. Odenna had had a block which allowed her only to reach or hold the Source if she closed her eyes, and with her eyes closed she had been unable to learn any channelling. All that work, and the girl had joined the Black Ajah. It had made Lomiel give up on teaching.

Odenna blinked at her, then scowled. A Shield swept into being between Lomiel and the Source, and Lomiel made no attempts to stop it. It would have been futile. Odenna was a strong one, and Lomiel remained as weak as ever.

"Come now," Lomiel said. "You can't possibly be afraid of me, and since you have not yet killed me, I gather you have questions. I do not mind answering them. Allow me to invite you inside for a cup of tea, and we can talk."

Without waiting for a reply, Lomiel began towards her little cottage. She dry-washed her hands on her apron as she walked, and then in water when she passed a barrel. She was very aware of how Odenna followed, curious but at a cautious distance.

The girl had always been curious. The years must have taught her caution.

"Where is your Warder?" demanded Odenna. "Your Haqon."

"Last I saw Haqon," replied Lomiel, "he was in a hole in the ground at the town graveyard." She glanced over her shoulder. "You know that I can't lie, Odenna. Be assured; he's not here. And my cottage is a log house, as you see. It contains no traps or contraptions or hidden doors."

"Then why are you so calm?"

Lomiel bent down – slowly – and cut a rose from a bush with her thumbknife. A black rose – a kind she had bred herself, with the help of the One Power. Once, when her hair had been raven black and she had still thought she would marry rich and live easy, a black rose had been her sigil. Looking back, it seemed almost an omen. She drew in the rose's sweet fragrance, and offered it to Odenna.

Odenna drew back with a sneer.

"No? Oh, very well. Not a botanist, I see." She continued to her house. "To answer your question… Odenna, I am old." Lomiel paused in the doorway and faced the younger woman. "My work is done, my joints ache, and I have buried more than one Warder. Their deaths ever tear at me, and I have no fear to join them. But I do find torture most uncomfortable, so I'd prefer to simply answer your questions over a nice cup of tea, before you kill me. If you don't mind..?"

Odenna scowled, but followed her into the cottage. She watched Lomiel as if she was trying to make sense of a puzzle.

Lomiel set the rose in a vase on the windowsill, and the dew on the black petals gleamed in the sunlight. She gestured graciously at one of the two chairs at the only table, fetched forth her finest pottery, brought out milk, and honey, and sugar, and filled the pot with water.

After a moment's hesitation, Odenne sat. She prodded the Shield on Lomiel to make certain it sat well in place, and she still held as much of _saidar_ as she could. Lomiel allowed herself a secret smile. That she could inspire such worry by simply remaining _calm_? Odenna watched her face and hands as if expecting her hair to sprout snakes and her hands to begin throwing knives.

"Be a dear and heat the water, girl," Lomiel requested and placed the pot before Odenna.

Odenna channelled Fire into it until it began to boil, then let the thread dissipate. Lomiel added a carefully measured pinch of tea leaves, and sat herself down opposite the younger woman – carefully, for she had no wish to give her hip any excuse to protest.

"Crumpet?" she said, and held forth a plate of them. Of course, Lomiel had never been much of a cook, and the crumpets looked like something come out of the Blight. To be perfectly honest, they tasted as badly as they looked, and had Odenna taken one, she would likely have spat it out and set it hurriedly aside.

Odenna gave them one look and declined.

Lomiel smiled. "I will eat the very same I offer to you, girl, and I assure you; I have no intention of poisoning myself. Tea?"

"Please."

Lomiel filled two cups. "Honey? Sugar or milk?"

"Milk, please."

Lomiel obliged, and added milk to her own cup – as well as a generous helping of sugar. She took a crumpet for herself, dipped it in her tea, and delicately tasted it. Yes, all that sugar was _quite_ necessary.

Odenna exchanged the two cups, with a curt glare. Only then did she drink.

"So," said Lomiel. "Where to start? Perhaps with why Keshil sent you on this merry chase."

"Likely for the same reason no one in the Tower knows where you are," Odenna ventured. "You weren't the only sister to disappear, but most came back quick enough. It's taken me three years to find _you_."

"Light, have I been gone that long? How time flies."

"_Why_?"

"For near a hundred years I served – involuntarily, mind – as Keshil's informant. I knew she was Black, and I know some _of_ the Blacks, as how you are capable of lying. She likely wanted to make certain she left no strings untied if she perished. Which is why she left you with these instructions."

"Is that _all_?"

"As far as Keshil knew, yes."

Odenna's eyes narrowed.

"Yes, there's more." Lomiel drank of her tea and nibbled on a second crumpet. It was beyond even her disciplined self to take a proper bite of the thing. "Once I learned of the Blacks, I decided to battle them. So behind Keshil's back, I began assassinating Black sisters."

Odenna's eyes narrowed further. Hastily she set her tea cup – which was now half empty – back down.

"Ten I have personally slain," Lomiel went on in bland tones. "Five I have betrayed to others, who might slay them. Once I even convinced a Warder of his sister's crimes, and next I heard the two had been lost in the Blight. I am certain it was no coincidence. He was Shienaran, and they take such things very seriously."

"Warders," scoffed Odenna, who after all was Red. "Useless drabble."

"Seven," Lomiel murmured, "have died at the hands of one of my Warders."

Odenna sniffed. "Even being Black is no guarantee of competence."

"I quite agree. As I said, Keshil never knew any of this. If she had suspected, I believe she would have killed me long ago." Lomiel could not help a small sigh of relief as she finished the crumpet. "Now that falls to you. How was your tea?"

Odenna rose. "I've heard enough. You're fishing for time, Lomiel. Don't think I can't see it."

Lomiel scoffed. "I'm not that big a fool, girl. Fishing for time, indeed. In the hope of achieving _what_? That you'll change your mind? Or that I'll get away?" She chuckled. "That's about as likely as my Warder being a Whitecloak."

Odenna opened her mouth –

A _thunk_ of metal driving into flesh and bone interrupted her, and Odenna fell flat on her face over the table.

The Shield on Lomiel began to unravel. She sighed, regretting to see her pottery in shards. At least the pot itself was still intact, standing just beside where Odenna's face had fallen, still steaming from the hot tea.

"Thank you, Haqon," Lomiel murmured. "Just in time, as usual."

Her Warder stood in the doorway, breathing fast but quiet through his nose so that his nostrils flared – he had just run hard, but was not as young as he used to be. He set the shovel down, just inside the doorway, but earth from digging still stained his wool breeches and linen shirt. He looked an old farmhand, aside from how straight his back remained, how sharp his eyes. He no longer carried a sword, but he had never given up on his trusted throwing knives.

Just as well.

"I saw the rose in the window," he said. "I hope I didn't err."

"You performed admirably, as usual," she said. "Tea?"

He sniffed the air cautiously. "If I drink _that_, I'll need to eat one of those horrible crumpets too, in short order, unless I want my blood to start leaking out through my skin. No. Thank you."

Lomiel smiled. She was very _proud_ of him.

He took his satchel off his shoulder, and placed it on the counter. "From the widow, in exchange for my help with the grave. A nice, plump chicken."

"How kind of her."

Haqon strode up, seized Odenna's hair, and lifted it to study the face. "Odenna Dorathon," he concluded. "She was of Keshil's Heart." He retrieved the knife from the back of her skull with a jerk. "We shouldn't have left her alive. Careless of us."

"Indeed. But we didn't find her at the time, Haqon."

"We should have _found_ her."

"It was time to leave while we could, not time to hunt more Blacks. You know this."

Haqon grunted. "Shall I rid us of this?" He gave Odenna's corpse a quick shake. "Before it begins to stink."

"Yes. Find her horse, too. It should be nearby. I will begin to pack. Apparently Evain doesn't have the Tower quite as well in hand as I would have liked."

Haqon sighed – and his bond betrayed relief.

Lomiel smiled again. "I know. I was bored, too."

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Author's Note:_

I'm writing because I'm home sick. Exams are coming up and I should be studying, but I'm coughing and can't concentrate. So I write instead. (Take that, yee gods of prioritizing!) I'll claim it's the fever getting to my brain.

I've bitten my nails down at the lack of response to "Out of the Flames". My thoughts travelled roads such as "okay, 40+ hits and only 1 review, was it really that horrible? didn't anyone who clicked manage to even finish it?". So I ask you, if you have clicked on and managed to finish this one, give me a one-word hint of what you thought.

And if you didn't manage to finish it because it bored you out of your mind, tell me that too.


	7. Red: A Night of Dancing

**A Night of Dancing**

"And where are the two of you off to?" came a soft voice.

Kameela started at the sudden words, but Watene did not jerk about, and was not even surprised.

She had known that the sergeant who headed their small escort of Tower Guards sat in a far corner of the common room, waiting and watching. He didn't need much sleep, after all, and he was a watchful sort.

At least around her.

He was her little brother, burn it, and burn the Captain of the Guards back in the Tower for knowing that and for sending _him_ with her when she had been assigned an escort. Like she and Kameela needed one.

Reports had come of a middle-aged farmer beginning to channel, and they were the two Reds sent to investigate. That was enough. Two fully trained sisters had no need for an escort. Light, it was not like they were heading out to battle an army and capture some False Dragon.

The man in question had hung himself in the rafters of his own barn before they even reached him, and they had been unable to determine if he actually _had_ channeled or just had a streak of bad luck. She and Kameela had stopped to enjoy the seasonal festivities in a medium-sized city before heading back home. She cherished the chance to spend some time with Kameela, away from other Reds. One thing she could not understand about her Ajah was its disapproval to festivities of any sort. Especially if it in any way involved dancing.

She and Kameela needed some entertainment, after helping with the desolation in the small settlement – channeling or no, houses and storages had burned to the ground. Kameela, generous as always, had gifted the widow with gold from her own pockets to help her and the children.

And any excuse to dance was good enough for Watene.

But there was Dahlan, who spoke from his corner and interrupted Watene's good mood. He rose and came at them like a shadow out of shadows. He was tall and lithe and had begun to wear his hair in a single tail, tied with a leather cord at the nape of his neck. He looked much older than he had just a year ago; more serious, more weary, and more alive – alive in a feverish, desperate sort of way, a clinging on because he must, not because he wanted to.

"We're Aes Sedai, sergeant," Watene gritted, and raised her chin. "We're not required to inform _you_ of our comings and goings. Besides, you –" She bit her lip and gave a vexed negating twitch of her head, before her tongue ran away with her. There were things she would not tell even Kameela. Her _friend_ Kameela. Kameela couldn't be _Black_, just couldn't, not if there was any justice left under the Light. Not Kameela.

Kameela just smiled amusedly. She knew of the blood relations between Watene and the young sergeant.

He bowed to them. "Aes Sedai, I am responsible for your safety, and I beg humbly for pardon if I have offended you. I would simply like to know where you are going, so that I might see you safely there and returned."

"We're going dancing," Kameela announced. "You haven't noticed the festivities?" Her eyes sparkled with amusement, looking from Watene to Dahlan, and back again. She had too much patience, did Kameela, and she found amusement in the oddest things.

"I did notice," Dahlan said softly. "I just hoped the two of you had sense enough to keep put."

Watene fought down an urge to slap him. How dared he –!

He was going too far again. He always did. He thought that, just because _she had_… that, just because _he was_… he thought he had the right to –

"Anything could happen out there," Dahlan went on calmly. "Some drunk might drag you off into a dark alley, and that wouldn't be the worst of it –"

"We're _Aes Sedai_," Watene growled at him again. He did flinch back at her tone – or perhaps at the emotions spearing through her mind and out her eyes. "We don't _let_ ourselves be dragged into dark alleys!"

"Of course not, Watene Sedai," he agreed in a consolatory murmur, and bowed again. "Still, it would ease my heart if you let me –"

"You're staying here," Watene broke him off sharply.

"Oh, don't be a grouch, Watene," Kameela smiled. "Sergeant, if it would ease your mind, you may accompany us. But don't wear your uniform. We intend to enjoy ourselves, not announce our livelihood."

He was clad in uniform, so he dipped in another bow. "I will return shortly."

As soon as he was out of sight, Kameela hugged Watene's arm, but her tone was admonishing. "You mustn't be so hard on him, Watene. He means well. And he might have fun, too. He needs that. Look at him! Growing all gaunt. Still, it's amazing to see that he's still alive, still functioning, considering that he was Gentled."

Watene flinched.

Kameela's look was comforting, her arm around Watene's shoulders supportive. Kameela had lost her father to Gentling – he had wasted away in only months. "How long's it been, now?"

"A year," Watene rasped, throat suddenly dry.

Kameela nodded. "I'm sorry to bring it up. It must have been awful."

_Awful? Now there was a word,_ Watene thought.

"Still, you must be glad to see how nicely he's adapted."

_Nicely_? Oh, he was alive and functioning, but that was about it. He did what he had to, performed his duties for the Tower Guard as well as ever, but… she couldn't help but feel how he _faded_. More and more clinging on, less and less _living_. He was her little brother, and even if he got in her hair too often for her liking, Light help her, she _had to_ look after him. But he was slipping away.

Slipping away, and she couldn't figure out what to do about it.

"I don't know how you've done it," Kameela went on amiably. "To make him live on."

"I… took a Yellow's advice." But had it been enough? Sure, he had lasted a year, but…

She did not want to think on this now, Light burn her! She wanted to dance and enjoy the festivities, and leave troubles like the Black Ajah, that bullying hag Rinette, and her fading little brother for later.

But she didn't dare be seen giving him too much attention. He had to remain just her brother, and the fewer who knew even that, the better. And she was Aes Sedai of the Red Ajah. She had little time for any man, brother or no, Gentled or not, her bloody burned bon–

She halted _that_ thought before it began, as if it might scribe itself on her forehead if it was allowed to finish.

If only he could keep out of her way! It did neither of them any good. It flared her temper and got him yelled at. Didn't he have sense to know he needed to keep away from her?

Dahlan came down the stairs, clad much like a shabby blade-for-hire, with his sword at his hip. His grace betrayed him for more than he appeared, but only to a knowing eye. He looked as if he might attract as much trouble as he repelled.

She glared at him. She didn't know what to do with him, and she hated not knowing something.

Why couldn't he have stayed in Tar Valon? He would at least have been _safe_. Coming with her to hunt men who might be able to channel – the foolery! What if he had gotten himself killed? And now, coming with her to go _dancing_! His mere presence would effectively block her good mood.

"Let's go," she snapped, taking Kameela's arm and jerking her about. She did not precisely stalk to the exit and out into the streets, but she didn't glide serenely either.

Dahlan followed wordlessly, three precise paces behind them.

Kameela seemed subdued by Watene's mood, and for a while they wafted silent through the crowds of cheering and dancing people. Watene made herself not think about Dahlan, and did her best not to look at him – there was no bloody need, anyway, she could _feel_ him following.

Kameela did glance back often, however, smiling at Dahlan as if at an old friend.

"Light, Watene," Kameela said into her ear, finally, and a smile was back on her face, "he acts as if he's your Warder. The way he's watching out for you."

"He's my _little brother_," Watene replied, careful to keep her voice neutral. "Aren't brothers supposed to watch out for their sisters?"

"Perhaps they are," Kameela grinned. "Anyway, he's as pretty as you are! May I borrow him later, dance with him?"

Watene felt her smirk – Dahlan hated dancing. He would blush and stumble over his own toes, and it would be a fitting punishment for insisting on coming with her. She heard a small, resigned sigh behind her.

Her bloody little brother knew her too well.

"Of course you may dance with him, Kameela!" she laughed, loud enough for Dahlan to hear.

Her bloody little brother sighed again, but made no objection.

Arm in arm with her friend – for Kameela was her friend, and she _would_ trust her, no matter if she hardly dared trust anyone else in the Tower any longer – she continued down the street. Colours and music and joy swirled around her, people clad in their festive best and children laughing and running, as often getting in someone's way as not. Street vendors called buyers for honey meads, for sugared candies, for bright shawls, festive hats, for pastries and dried fruits, and gleemen and acrobats performed at corners or in the middle of the street, making the crowds pass around them.

She would miss this, once her face grew ageless. Oh, she would still be able to sweep out into the streets on festive days and go dancing, but she knew well that once she had the look of an Aes Sedai, people would not treat her the same. The easy companionship with handsome young strangers would vanish.

But behind her followed Dahlan, wary, unaffected by the mood in the street as a rock was unaffected by the churning river. People gave him a wide berth without even realizing it.

Watene hung on Kameela's arm and suddenly wished to make her brother smile. She bit her lip. When had he last smiled? He used to be so cheerful a youth.

Kameela bought dried figs and shared them with Watene, and with Dahlan, though he only took one, and cautiously sniffed it. Then he made to bow politely –

Kameela caught his shoulders to stop the bow. "Come now, Dahlan! None of that, now. Use your sister's name, for once, and call me Kameela, and don't let me see you bow or scrape your feet again before morning!"

Dahlan blinked at her, and looked uncertainly at Watene.

Watene shrugged uncomfortably – but decided to have a talk with Kameela later. He was a _guardsman_, after all. Guardsmen _bowed_, and that was the way of it. Even if he was her… her brother.

They reached an open square where paper lamps in every hung along strings over their heads, lighting the scene, and music played from the fountain in the center. People danced all around, and at once Kameela blinked at Watene and dragged Dahlan into their midst.

Dahlan was most uncomfortable with that.

Watene paused to watch the two, and bought herself some spiced wine. Kameela was near as tall as Dahlan, and they were easy to follow even when the crowd swallowed them. He would stumble the steps, and she would laugh and catch him and go right on as if nothing happened. Watene could see – she could _feel_ – his discomfort fade. His watchfulness never did, though. He kept glancing at her, always right at her – he knew where she was –

A cheerful young fellow in a bright blue jacket took Watene's arm, and with an amateurish flourish of his cloak and a bow, he had dragged her in amidst the dancers. His cheeks were a tad puffed and his breath already smelled of wine when he leaned in to tell her how pretty she was, but he was courteous and danced well.

A handsome man with silver at his temples, in a fine velvet coat, danced with her after the first had been dragged away by his friends. He took her for a lady, asked for her name and house and she gave her name, doubting that he would be pleased to hear that her 'house' had reared swine for five generations, if not longer.

Her third partner was near a head shorter than she. He had feathers and pearls woven into his hair and he made her laugh.

The fourth and fifth were a pair of brothers who bickered good-naturedly with another as they vied for her attention, and she danced with them both, and their friend, and let them buy her wine and sugared fruits.

More men followed, and Watene enjoyed herself. Dahlan was off somewhere to the west, and she had lost sight of Kameela, but she was certain her friend was enjoying herself, too. Dahlan would look after her, and Kameela would certainly look after Dahlan. Kameela had such a good heart.

The handsome man in the velvet coat came back once more, and invited her to visit him at his manner the next day, should it please her to do so. She told him that she had business to attend to and had to leave early. He had manners – he accepted her excuse with a bow, and she did not see him again.

Others danced with her. She accepted more spiced wine – what _did_ they put in it to make it taste so alluring? – and tried a mug of honey mead which she couldn't quite decide if she liked or not, but it was sweet and the man who bought it for her showed a set of lovely dimples when he smiled.

It grew late and she began groggily to weave her way back towards the inn, wondering in an off-hand manner if Kameela had returned yet. In this season, this part of the world, the nights were short and it would not be long before sunrise. Kameela was surely returned – she had more sense in these things than Watene herself, didn't let herself be quite so carried away by festivities. And Dahlan… Dahlan was happy. Perhaps Kameela had made him drink some of that honey mead. He'd always had a sweet tooth.

The two brothers she had danced with, and their friend, showed up beside her. They tried to convince her to stay, took her arms and attempted to lead her back. She was tired and the wine had made her tipsy, so she couldn't quite manage her normal haughty Aes Sedai countenance and tell them off. She didn't want to, either – this evening she was a young woman enjoying herself, not an Aes Sedai. She pulled her arms free when they took them, but couldn't help giggling at their clownery. She shook her head, but somehow she found herself herded aside from her path, pulled and prodded, and she didn't find it in her to do much about it.

A few more hours of dancing wouldn't hurt her.

One of them slung an arm about her shoulders and they followed the two others, heads together as he told stories and her giggles rewarded him. She hadn't been looking where they were leading her, but when the sounds of merriment from the nearest large town square began to fade, she looked up.

They were in a deserted side street. Watene blinked in surprised, began to pull free from the man. She was about to word a question, when suddenly he was kissing her.

_He was bloody kissing her_!

She didn't know if she should be furious or surprised, and was too shocked to react.

Shock kept its hold for another few moments, as the man's arms went about her. It was one of the brothers – the eldest, she thought.

But he was bloody _kissing_ her. Without her bloody permission.

She set her hands firm to his chest to shove him, and he staggered away, surprise on his face.

"Now now, lass, don't be like that," grinned the younger brother and came towards her as if to snatch her.

She reached for _saidar_ without thinking, readied a flow to seize him in his tracks, but then the third man was there, wrapping his arms about her from behind and dragging her down. Being tipsy combined with shock, and the flows disappeared. She thumped to the ground.

_Burn it, I've channeled through worse than this –!_

It must have been the wine. She felt a pang of fear. Had she ever tried to channel after drinking before? No, of course not. That would have been foolish. Wielding something so potentially dangerous with her head all scrambled, of course not.

But fear left her and suddenly there was only anger. She opened herself to the Source. Her body struggled against groping hands on its own, but inside, she was a rosebud, opening to the sun. She was –

She was going to bloody roast these fools alive, that was what she was going to do!

She lashed out with Air and three men tumbled away from her.

Well, maybe not roast them alive. Not really. Damn those Oaths.

Shakily, she got to her feet, reached into her belt pouch, and fished out her great serpent ring. With a studied nonchalance she set it on her finger, while three men in a heap against the wall gaped at her.

Watene steeled herself, and brushed her skirts straight with hands that were not – were not! – shaking. She reached for serenity and found it, of a sort, and if her voice trembled when she spoke, well, no one was perfect.

"Never," she said in her best Aes Sedai voice, with her best haughty high chin, "do that again."

The three were too baffled to even stammer coherently. She raised a hand to silence them. She found herself at loss. What to do with them? Call the guards? If she could even be bothered to find any, they would likely be as drunk as anyone else.

Watene didn't feel like doing anything but heading for her inn and her bed. A long night, and a bit too much to drink, and she would have a glorious headache in the morning.

She looked at the three men. They cowered. She had to do something, she realized – men couldn't be left to believe they could push an Aes Sedai into an alley without consequence.

Then Dahlan was there, sword in hand and looking like death incarnate. He took in the scene in a glance, took her arm – surprisingly gently, considering the hard look in his eyes. "Did they hurt you? If they hurt you –"

If the three men had been cowering before, now they were positively trying to sink down into the cracks between the cobblestones. So _now_, she thought, they were _afraid_? Just because of a _man_ with a bloody _sword_? It was so unfair.

Watene shook her head. "I'm alright," she told her brother. She was bruised, but not harmed.

Dahlan faced the three men, and eyed them as if wondering which one to carve open first.

"Dahlan," Watene whispered.

"Which one of you –" her brother growled, ignoring her.

"Dahlan!"

"– _dared_ to –"

"_Gaidin_!" she snapped.

He halted, startled, and looked at her.

Watene drew a deep breath. "You will leave these men alone," she told him softly. Softly, because her head felt like it would split open. Had it been banged to the cobbles when she fell? She couldn't be sure. She was still too focused on _not_ trembling. _Not trembling_, Light burn her! "I know their faces, and in the morning we will take the matter to the guard." If, in the morning, she remembered to bother.

Dahlan inclined his head to her. So _now_ he obeyed? _Now_ he showed proper respect?

Watene turned to the three men. Perhaps she could make more than Dahlan obey. "In fact," she said to them, "you three are going to go to the city guards yourselves, at first light, and report this incidence yourselves." She set her hands to her hips and glared at them. "If I find out you haven't, I'll set _him_ on your trail." She jerked her thumb at Dahlan. "And he's far from as forgiving as I."

Dahlan smiled. The three blinked, and – still staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed at her – began stammering excuses and reassurances.

Gibberish. To her, it was all _gibberish_. The louts had treated her worse than a dock-side whore, and now they were wasting her time with barely legible gibberish. It made her furious. It made her understand why so many Reds hated men, whether they channeled or not.

But more than angry, she still felt tipsy and tired. She shook her head to clear it – Dahlan's hand was beneath her elbow and for once she did not shove him aside.

"To our inn, Dahlan," she whispered. He began to lead her away.

She doubted she would ever hear of the three again, whether they went to the guards or not. She couldn't really bring herself to care. She should – but she couldn't. Perhaps in the morning.

And Dahlan's bond... there was nothing _faded_ about him now. He was a whirlpool of emotion in the back of her head, full of anger and concern, full of affection and worry. A shame. Earlier, he had almost felt _happy_.

"I'm sorry I didn't come sooner," he told her softly. "I should have –"

"Did you enjoy dancing with Kameela?" she interrupted.

He blushed fiercely. "I – we – I mean – I – I'm just glad you weren't hurt, Watene."

"Has Kameela gone to sleep?"

Dahlan nodded. "At least, she's gone to her room. I – I would have come to look for you, but I thought you'd be angry with me if I did."

"I would have," she agreed.

"See?" her brother smiled. "That much I've learned. Now come. It's not far to the inn."

"Mmm." She leaned drowsily on his arm and let her eyes half-close as they walked. Her brother, at least, she could trust.

_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

_Author's Note:_

Oh, come on. Spend a moment to tell me what you think. The 'review' button is well trained and won't bite you.


	8. GreenBrown: A Pair Of Gloves ::1::

**For a pair of gloves and the heck of it** _(Part 1)_

"Look at you, lad!" erupted a voice behind Jored, and a friendly clap landed on his shoulder. He looked up to see Marthon, a merry, stout man with three chins who no one would ever have believed a Blademaster – until the moment he cut them down. He had been a frequent instructor for the recruits before his Aes Sedai's business pulled him away from the Tower.

"It's been ten years, master Marthon," Jored replied, and laid down his book. He was seated at a table in the Warder mess hall. He liked the mess hall – it was a place full of companionship, and many of the Ajah differences never reached it. The mood was mostly cheerful and open, and the unspoken rule was to pry no secret. And there were no librarians about to glare at him as he read.

"Ten years, yes. By the Light, it's good to be home." Marthon laughed. "But there's no reason to 'master' me now, lad. You're not a recruit any more. Welcome to the long watch, Jored _Gaidin_."

Jored gave a formal nod in response to a formal greeting.

Across from Marthon, a lean man sank down on the bench; a Green's Warder named Karden, if Jored remembered correctly. He stood out for his snake-like features, and the slight hiss in his voice – for once he'd taken a punch to the throat and his windpipe had been damaged.

"Karden!" barked Marthon. "Did Senna Sedai let you down for a game of dice?" He stuck a big hand into his coat pocket. "Do you play, Jored?"

"I've no luck with dice," Jored declined.

"Suit yourself. But do tell, who's the lucky Aes Sedai? Karden and I have been out of touch with things for a while."

"A Brown sister. Jahra Bartangion."

"A Brown, ey?" said Marthon, half absorbed with studying the die. "Lucky you. Browns are sensible women. Stay home, stay safe. She's likely up in the library right now."

"Actually, she's out in the city. Gone shopping."

Karden grunted. "Be glad she's not a Green. When my Senna goes shopping, she's as likely to come back with a new dress as a new coat of mail for me, followed by an impromptu trip into the Blight to try it out."

Jored grimaced in sympathy, but said nothing. He had begun to give up on ever explaining the trouble with Brown sisters to other Warders.

Last time Jahra had headed into the Blight... In the middle of the night she had decided to ride out and collect mushrooms. From the Blight. And she hadn't thought to wake him and bring him. She hadn't thought to keep her eyes open for anything but mushrooms, either.

Lucky he'd had a fast horse, lucky she hadn't gone far in, lucky Gaveed Sedai had been nearby, to drag the poison from her veins and Heal her. Lucky it had been only a malicious tree, and not a trolloc. Which was all too many 'lucky' for him to feel safe.

But worst of all, she had _berated_ him for not thinking to bring those bloody mushrooms when he carried her back.

Nowadays he slept lightly and woke if she as much as moved.

"Blues aren't so much cupcakes, either," muttered Marthon, rattling the die in a cup. "Light, _ten years_. I don't think I've sat down since leaving the Tower, much less slept a full night. Tomorrow, I'll sleep until _noon_, and if the Master at Arms wants to comment, he's free to take it up with my Celaila. She's promised me a sleep-in."

"I wish him the best of luck," chuckled Karden. "But a sleep-in sounds soft enough to me. I'm telling you, Greens are easily the worst. Thank the Light my Senna's got a few years on her and has developed some common sense. Yesterday evening I heard two of the younger Greens whispering. Some poor gang of Warders is in for a _scare_." He caught the die in the cup and held it still in both hands as he leaned forward over the table. "Listen. They were planning a stunt, just for the heck of it. A competition of sorts. To head into the Fortress of Light and steal a pair of gloves from the Lord Captain-Commander himself. The rules being, no getting caught, no Power, no _Warders_. They were actually discussing the best way of _diverting_ their Warders. Leaving them with cloaked bonds to _hunt_ – another competition, to see which Warder would find them first."

Marthon shook his head in wry disbelief. "Light. If my Celaila tried something like that... Alright, Karden. This time, Greens are the worst. You win."

Karden stared happily down at the die he had just cast. "I believe I do."

But Jored had looked up, feeling like a hare who had spotted a fox. That prank... young Greens... it sounded just like... "Tell me, Karden. Did you recognize the two?"

Karden shrugged. "The first was a little plump woman, with short curly blond hair. Didn't know her. The other... remember that Accepted who used to come down and practice the forms with us, Marthon? Anthared's protégé?"

Marthon nodded. "Yamela was her name. Figures she'd be a Green."

Jored shot up from his seat. "Light. _Jahra_."

Marthon snatched hold of his arm his jovial countenance washed away by something still and deadly. "Something's happened? Shall we come with you?"

Jored shook his head. "No. I just need to get to them before they reach the Fortress of the –"

"That was the _Greens_ talking, lad," Karden explained, and eyed him oddly.

"Yamela Sedai happens to be my Jahra's best friend. They always do things together."

"I thought she'd told you she was going shopping. Sit, lad," Marthon said calmly. "If she said _shopping_, she's shopping. Aes Sedai can't lie."

"Her exact words," Jored said uneasily, "were 'I'll be leaving the Tower today, so don't be alarmed when I do. I need to _find a pair of gloves_'."

Marthon blinked.

Karden reached to pat his arm. "Let the lad go, Marthon. But, lad? Pick up the Greens' Warders before you run off. That fortress isn't a bee's hive you should be digging into on your own."

Jored nodded tersely, picked up his book, and ran.

"Light," Marthon said behind him. "A bloody _Brown_?"

"I think we need to start this entire game over," sighed Karden. "If a _Brown_..." He paused. "Have we ever even _considered_ the Yellows?"

- - -

Jahra Bartangion, the Brown in question, stood on deck between the aforementioned young Greens, watching the riverside as it passed, as Tar Valon's white walls grew more distant. The Tower itself would remain visible for hours yet, but she already missed it. The Tower was home. It had such a marvellous library.

"That worked rather well, if I may say so myself," Yamela said smugly. was the taller of the two Greens, and pretty enough to make men look twice, even though there was a flair to her movements and her way of standing that reeked of Green Ajah arrogance . Jahra forgave her that. Beneath it, she had a good heart "To tell them we're playing 'hide and seek' as an excuse to hide the bonds? Brilliant, Feyon. Simply brilliant."

The second Green, Feyon Velmar, brushed her skirts unnecessarily, her returning smile small and controlled. She was an unremarkable, plump little woman, whose appearance never hinted at her quick mind and iron will. She always surprised Jahra – then again, Jahra did not know her all that well. "Thank you. And every word true. We're just hiding a bit further off, and leaving a few less clues, than we made them believe."

" Jored will find us once he grows worried," Jahra murmured. "He's a good Warder."

"They'll all pick up our trail, sooner or later," Yamela shrugged. "All part of the game. Good practice for them."

"But until they figure to ask at the harbour, they're four Warders scourging Tar Valon chasing shadows," said Feyon happily. She glared at Yamela. "But a gold mark says those twins of yours will cheat and stay together."

"Come now, Feyon! They're better disciplined than that."

"No, they're not," crisped Jahra. She prodded the bond in the back of her mind. "Well, it's begun. Earlier than expected. He's spooked."

The two Greens turned to watch her.

"Jahra?" Yamela said slowly. "You _did_ find an excuse to hide the bond, didn't you?"

Jahra smiled. "Oh, he'd be so worried if I did. I let him believe I was going shopping. He won't be able to tell the exact moment I leave Tar Valon – he'll just worry when I get too far away. And by then, we'll be good and distant."

"With you like a beacon leading them right to us. Hide the bond, Jahra."

Jahra looked at the two. Technically, she was in charge, being the strongest in the Power. But Jahra had never been very comfortable being in charge and this venture _had_ been _their_ idea. The Fortress of the Light? She'd simply had to come with them. So much to see, so much to learn... She picked a book out of her pocket and found her page. Amadicia. Fascinating place. Men practicing healing..?

"_Jahra_?" Yamlea prompted.

She blinked at her friend over the edge of her book. "Yes?"

"Hide the bond."

Jahra sighed. "Very well." Flipping a page, she turned, and headed for the cabin the three shared. It was too windy on deck to read. And if she returned the books to the library with saltwater stains, the librarians would set her a penance to make a stone weep.

So much to read, so short a trip. She might as well get started.

- - -

It took Jored a good while to track down the twins, who were snooping around Tar Valon, and he silently cursed every moment, cursed what a large city Tar Valon was. But once one of the twins was found, finding the second was easy. Either of them could practically point to the other, as if they were bonded to each other as well as to Yamela.

Jahra, at least, had not hid the bond, as it turned out Yamela had.

An exercise in _hide and seek_? What a devilish woman.

"She would never have pulled a stunt like this on Anthared," complained Vaston. At least, Jored thought it was Vaston, but he had never been able to tell the two apart.

"And if she had," Durrak muttered in reply, "she'd have found him popping out of a barrel right beside her, scolding her about suitable Aes Sedai behaviour."

"Anthared would never have popped out of barrels, no matter what," Jored said, with conviction. There was no one in known Creation he had more difficulty imagining popping out of anything than Anthared. The Amyrlin herself would pop out of a barrel before Anthared did. Anthared had always been very proper.

The twins unified glare struck him before he had even finished speaking.

"Perhaps not –" began Vaston.

"– but as said, she'd never have pulled this on _him_."

"She had too much respect for the old man."

"I can't _imagine_ why she hasn't the same respect for the two of you..." muttered Jored.

The twins exchanged a hasty grin. And as quickly, it was gone.

"No matter," Vaston said. "Anthared isn't here –"

" – Yamela's about to throw herself head-first into a viper's pit –"

"– and it's our job to get her out. Let's move."

Move they did. The twins, after over a decade of running laps in penalty for some prank, had a stamina remarkable even among Warders, and now brought it to full use as they scoured the city, meeting hastily at set points and continuing after a few exchanged words. Jored worked hard to keep up. Fortunately, between the three of them, it only took a few hours longer to find Dakeel, Feyon's Warder – and also Feyon's _husband_, it was said.

Jored had never asked the younger man if it was true. It was not his affair.

When Dakeel heard the news he began swearing, quite vividly, and he kept up the tirade all the way up aboard a ship heading down river. His stream of dark language even helped secure passage, in a "get us there or I'll drown you all like rats" kind of way – which hardly would have met with the Tower's approval.

None of the four was inclined to care.

And then came the difficult part: doing nothing.

It was a long journey. Dakeel produced a cup and dice, and invited the twins and some sailors to play. Naturally, the twins cheated. But their companionable manner and endless supply of amusing stories and jokes took the edge of the offence.

Jored went to stand in the bow, staring ahead, as if he might see the Aes Sedai's ship, see his Jahra, if only he strained. He kept his eyes on the horizon, willing it to stretch.

The twins and Dakeel still did not feel their bonds – but had any harm come to the Aes Sedai, they would surely have known.

For his own part, despite the distance that made awareness of her indistinct and weak, Jored was certain that Jahra was calm, content, and reading.

Which told him nothing. If they put a rope around her neck but a book in her hands, she would be calm, content, and reading, likely up until the very moment her neck snapped.

But he had to reach her before then, Light help him.

- - - - - - - -

_Author's Note_

As some of you may have noticed, here I've punched the previous "first two chapters" of this little story into one chapter. In order to save some chapters of the story, and allow the chapters to be longer.


	9. GreenBrown: A Pair Of Gloves ::2::

**For a pair of gloves and the heck of it** _(Part 2)_

Jahra came to the Fortress of the Light bright and early, long before the afternoon time appointed for the game to start. She had clad herself in simple woollens, and had added a lilt to her voice as if her origins were further south than truth would have told. She spread her skirts and dipped a hasty curtsey at the guards at the servant's entrance.

"Beggin' pardons, sirs," she said, "I've come to see mistress Meidara. If I may, sirs?"

The two frowned and exchanged glances.

"She's workin' here, sirs," Jahra clarified. "She's the First Maid, is she."

"You don't just waltz right into the Fortress of the Light visiting friends, girl," rumbled one of the guards.

_Girl_? Jahra took the derogative term without blinking. Good it was that she was no Green, to puff and huff for the tiniest thing.

"Mistress Meidara's goin' to be mad as a cat in a drawer, 'less I'm let in, sirs," she mumbled meekly. "The laundry woman be needin' an extra pair of hands today, and I, I've been asked, see."

She had been asked, and Mistress Meidara would be displeased. One of the laundry women, a certain Reene Boggun, was a Brown Ajah informant, and she and her three daughters all worked with the laundry in the Fortress. The day before, two of them had – at Jahra's suggestion – reported ill with fever and stayed home. Now, two sets of hands short, Mistress Meidara had been thrilled at Reene's suggestion of having Jahra, 'a friend', come and help.

One of the guards rolled back and forth on his feet, from heel to toes, heel to toes, and squinted at Jahra in a way which made him look very much like a fish. Finally, he barked: "Herk! Go find Mistress Meidara and bring her here."

A young lad darted out of the nearby guard's hut and disappeared across the courtyard.

Jahra spent her time with her hands folded, but she could not keep her eyes from scanning her surroundings in a manner… a manner which made the guards glare.

Mistress Meidara showed up in person at the gates, likely more to berate the guards for daring to disturb her than to pick up Jahra. But within moments Jahra was being bustled away, headed for the laundry, leaving two rather cowed guards behind her.

- - -

Yamela spent her day in Amador the less reputable districts of the city, haggling ferociously for supplies and proper dress, and combing the less reputable denizens for information. The less reputable denizens were well hidden, and even after she located them they didn't have much to tell her. Apparently the Children kept a tight Fortress. Not impregnable, though. Nothing was impregnable to a good set of wits and a good dose of patience.

Patience might not be one of Yamela's strong points, but at the rate things were progressing she would be busy until nightfall in any case. And when night fell... she had seen Whitecloak sentries before. _Pathetic_. The twins could have slipped an entire menagerie, in addition to their own personal circus, right under the nose of the entire garrison.

Yamela herself was dreadfully out of practice, but she anticipated no trouble.

She went over her plans and waited for night to fall. Darkness would be her friend.

- - -

When all was ready, late in the afternoon, Feyon swished back and forth through a waiting hall. She had bribed herself to an audience with the Lord Captain-Commander. She was a merchant's daughter, and she had designed a proposition for the man. She only wished Dakeel had been along – the ability to lie would have been quite convenient. But 'no Warders' was part of the deal, and good enough. She doubted Dakeel could have kept himself from cutting people down in this place.

So no ability to lie. She could do without it. She had bought wares and arranged enough to be able to present a decent story and make the Lord Commander believe what she needed him to believe.

She posed as a glove merchant, of course. Much simpler that way. Everything from fine leather gloves for ladies to heavier riding gloves for the rough and wear of respectable soldiers. At the moment, she had a proposition prepared for supplying the entire Fortress of the Light with gloves, or – if they preferred – good leather for making gloves, bleached until it was nearly white.

She had even arranged to have the bleach bought, to be able to say she had it ready.

All in all, this turned out to be quite an expensive venture, but she hadn't had this much fun in years.

- - -

Mezal Karent, Lord-Captain Commander of the Children of the Light, was prepared for a bad day, which meant that surprises might well earn the offending party a hangman's noose. The political stability of the Children balanced on a knife's edge after his… rectifications… the day before, and he expected unannounced visitors any moment. Of the assassin kind.

So he sat in his personal chambers, at his desk with his back to the wall and a sword across his knees, beneath the edge of the table. He took his meals in his chambers, which was unusual for him, and his afternoon tea in the same manner. The empty tray had just been carried out by a servant when the door opened anew, and he snapped his gaze up like a fox spotting a hare.

A young woman entered. Women could be assassins, too. This one was in servant's livery, and she balanced a basket of neatly folded sheets on her hip, on top of which perched a smaller stack of what appeared to be neatly folded shirts, but there could be any manner of weaponry hidden in such a stack. She saw him and curtsied and headed for his bedroom.

All at a safe distance from his desk, her hands busy with her basket. He relaxed.

But thoughts of poisonous crawlers in his bed linens drove him out of his chair. He shoved his sword into its sheathe and planted himself in the doorway to watch as the woman changed his bed linens for clean ones and made the bed. She just gave him one, blank look, dropped a second curtsey, and went on with her work.

She began sorting his clean shirts into his closets, and searched out the dirty things, which she stashed with the dirty bed linens and the clothes he had dumped over a chair into her basket. She exchanged the herbs that lay atop the clothing piles for fresh ones – she had several handfuls in her apron pockets – and closed the closets.

"By your leave, my Lord-Captain Commander," she murmured as she slipped past him and out of his chambers.

He returned to his desk. Just as he thumped onto his chair his secretary came inside.

"My – ah – my Lord-Captain Commander," the man wheezed. He had smoked steadily for years, and always wheezed, when he did not cough. "A merchant is here to see you."

Mezal sighed and wondered how much the merchant had bribed his secretary, and his accountant, to be allowed time today. He knew his schedule had been empty – but never mind. He was to pretend all was normal.

"Your accountant insisted – ah – that this merchant make her offer to you personally."

"Very well, bring her in. And bring in the lieutenant at my door."

Lieutenant Jove came in first, saluted, and posted himself halfway between the desk and the door. Two Children trailed him. Mezal felt better. Jove, his own nephew, would keep a keen eye on this merchant for him.

The merchant was plump and looked wealthy. Her manner was very precise, as if she was ticking off every action on a mental list. She curtsied, gave her name and town of origin, and her trade, all in a well-rehearsed litany. A plain woman, but with a charming smile.

"You must have presented quite a handsome bribe to be allowed to see me so quickly," Mezal said bluntly.

"Quite handsome," she smirked. "For alas, my business forces me to travel onward at the latest tomorrow morning."

He waved a hand to let her continue. She spoke warmly of her stock and offers and… he listened with half an ear. Gloves. Gloves? However had she persuaded that fool accountant that he had any interest in gloves..?

She was persuasive, however, and her examples showed fine workmanship. In the end, he found himself enjoying the menial task of haggling, even if his secretary had to supply facts on what they normally paid for gloves, the rate of wear and exchange among the soldiers… quality against price, argued the merchant, whose name had already slipped his mind.

She studied his gloves, and Jove's, and even those of Jove's soldiers, to point out all their flaws. Her prize wares were lined with sheep skin, the trimmed wool facing the fingers on the inside, the outside reinforced for holding reins and sword. He liked them, and ordered enough for the entire garrison, with spares. Bleached white with a rising sun embroidered in gold on the back of the hand, for the officers, and neutral grey for soldiers. His own sets were to be exactly tailored to fit him.

Her farewells were grand as she gathered the contract and her showcase gloves and prepared to leave. She neared the door when he snapped his fingers, and Jove blocked her path.

"My own gloves," he reminded her. "You must have taken them by mistake."

"Not by mistake, my Lord-Captain Commander." Her smile beamed at him. "If I may borrow them, my tailors will have no need to come and measure your hands."

"Not _that_ pair," he said. "Those are my favourites. You may have another pair. Bloss! Get her another pair from my closets."

His secretary scrambled towards his bedchamber. The man was likely insulted at a manservant's task, but Mezal's manservant was away to visit relatives, and Bloss was paid enough to stand jovially on his head if Mezal should require it.

Bloss came back with an air of confusion. "My Lord-Captain Commander, there – ah – are no other gloves in your closets."

"Don't be a fool, Bloss. Check again."

Bloss did, and came back with helplessly spread empty hands.

"Has the laundry woman taken them all?" muttered Mezal to himself.

The merchant's eyes narrowed. For a short moment. Then her expression became a mask of calm cheerfulness.

Mezal didn't understand the sudden shift, and he disliked what he didn't understand. "And why were you attempting to sneak my gloves out of my presence, woman?" he barked.

"I wouldn't call it _sneak_," she murmured steadily. "But I ask forgiveness that I forgot to ask. Habits are hard to break, and it becomes routine to borrow an old pair instead of ordering a tailor's fitting."

For a woman accused of theft by the Lord-Captain Commander of the Children of the Light, she was _remarkably_ collected. Mezal felt a mix of grimness and anger. No _fear_? Didn't she take him _seriously_?

"Send for Mistress Meidara and the laundry women," he ordered. "And hold the merchant."

"My Lord-Captain Commander, I must protest," the merchant injected at once. "I have pressing duties –"

"Pressing, at this time of the evening?" he asked her dryly. "Then see it this way, goodwoman. You've been invited to dine with me tonight and are given chambers here in my castle for the night. You may attend your business in the morning. Surely by then this will all be sorted out."

"Much as you honour me, I can't remain here. And I will not," her voice grew hard, "be held against my will."

"Will not?" he echoed in his lowest, most dangerous voice. It usually made people shut up and give in. "I am the Lord-Captain Commander of the Children of the Light, and when –"

"My Lord, in the name of fairness, you can't retain me here as if I was a simple thief! I'm merchant blood, merchant born, I deal fairly and I walk in the Light. People who walk in the Light have nothing to fear from the Children, not as much as a night's forced hospitality. Or am I mistaken?"

He blinked. She should have meekly given in. Didn't she respect his authority? He would teach her. "You are correct. But then there are those who _pretend_ to walk in the Light. And when they show up, interesting or odd things happen. Interesting, as in people begin to die. Or odd, I imagine, as _all of my gloves are stolen and you about to take the last pair_."

"Do you mean to suggest I serve the Shadow?"

Mezal gave an angered twitch of his head which would serve for a nod.

"If I served the Dark One," the merchant began, almost amusedly, "wouldn't I have better things to do than to steal your _gloves_?"

"I don't pretend to understand the workings of the Shadow," he said.

"My Lord-Captain Commander, if I may," said Jove, with a salute, but went on without waiting to see whether he might or not. "I've heard the witches can use personal items in their spells. Perhaps –"

"It's also said they can fly," chirped the merchant and laughed as if the thought amused her greatly. Perhaps it did. Women found the oddest things amusing.

Jove watched the merchant through slitted eyes. "Perhaps _you're_ a witch."

Mezal glared at him. Sometimes, his nephew showed a remarkable lack of sense. Fortunately it was balanced by a remarkable sense of duty. This merchant, a witch? In the Fortress of the Light itself? Ludicrous! No _witch_ would –

"And might this laundry woman be a witch as well?" the merchant wondered dryly. "Now _that_ I could believe."

"Merchant," Jove demanded harshly, taking firm hold of the woman's arm so that she turned her cool gaze to him. "Are you a witch?"

"Witch? Of course I'm no potion-brewing, dirty-clothed and foul-smelling _witch_!"

"Let me clarify," Mezal said softly. This, he knew. He didn't believe it, but once the question had been opened, an answer must be sought. He reached out slowly, snaked his hand about her neck, at the base of her skull, and turned her face towards him. And the bloody woman only quirked a smile, even though he knew it must hurt. He tightened his fingers. "Are you an Aes Sedai? Tell me yes, or no. Tell me the _truth_, and if I do not believe you, you will be given over to the Questioners."

"If I said I was, you'd hang me," she replied. Despite his grip, she managed to raise her chin slightly. "If I deny it, you wouldn't believe me. I might as well stay silent. The truth will come out, and the matter will be set right, Light willing."

Mezal dispassionately dug his fingers even more sharply into her neck. "One final chance, woman. The truth."

"You must be aware, Lord-Captain Commander, that Aes Sedai have those… strange faces. I _don't_, but I've seen them. Can't put an age to them. Can't tell if it's my daughter or my grandmother I'm looking at. Comes from meddling with the Power."

"Not all of them."

But she simply looked at him. Beneath his fingers, her pulse seemed to quicken.

"Is it so very difficult for you to simply cooperate? Simply speak up? Unless you deny it, and deny it so that I _believe_ you, I'll name you a witch and hand you over to the Hand of the Light," he told her.

And still, that irritating calm. That unshakable self-certainty. Suddenly, Mezal was very certain that his nephew had guessed true, absurd though it was. Would any woman except a witch stand so straight-backed and presume to _face_ him?

Those cold eyes, staring at him, hardly even flickering. That wry half-smile, which only now began to look strained. That mask of cool, competent confidence. A witch, truly. Oh, but the Questioners would put the fear of the Light into her! Then she would know not to –

There was no warning, but the merchant suddenly whimpered and fainted dead away.

Jove caught her awkwardly beneath the arms before she struck the floor and lowered her down. "What do we do with her, my Lord-Captain Commander?" he asked.

Mezal scratched his trimmed goatee. Had he really been holding her neck _that_ hard? "Lock her up and guard her. Unless she's more forthcoming when she wakes, give her over to the Hand. They'll know what to do with her."

_That is_, he thought to himself; _they'll make her sound like a witch whether she is or not, and then I'll have someone to hang. Always good for morale, a hanging is._

- - -

"So, we're here," said Dakeel, as they strode from the harbour into the city. It was sunset. According to Jored, who still felt his bond, the Aes Sedai must have cheated with the currents, and their ship had been faster by almost a day. Jahra had stopped travelling already that morning. Too much lost time for the four Warders to waste any more. "Where do we start?"

"If it was us," said one of the twins –

And the other continued: "We'd scale the walls. Knock out some guards, snatch a uniform –"

"– or two –"

"– and start looking."

"Sounds like a long search. Are we sure they're even in the fortress yet? They can't have moved _that_ fast."

The twins exchanged a look, and turned to Dakeel. With one voice they said; "There is nothing we wouldn't put past Yamela."

"They're right," Jored muttered. "Jahra, at least, is somewhere in the direction of the Fortress. And I wouldn't be surprised either if that means _inside_ it."

"I have a simple but elegant solution to this problem," said Dakeel. "The ladies are after the Lord-Captain Commander's gloves. I'm for –"

"Snatching the Lord-Captain Commander and asking him where his gloves are!" exclaimed one twin.

"As much as I love the idea of _kidnapping_ the Lord-Captain Big-Ass of the Whitecloaks," drawled the other twin, "I have a better idea. We tie him to his bed and tickle his feet until he howls for mercy."

"Brilliant!"

"Can you two be serious, just for a moment?" growled Jored. "I suspect they were trying not to get the Lord-Captain Commander's attention, and I suggest we do the same."

"Does that mean no tickling?" asked one of the twins sadly.

"Will you –"

"No, let them go on," Dakeel interrupted him. "If we're lucky their madness might come up with a plan."

"Yes," sighed Jored, "but would we _survive_ that plan?"

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_Author's Note:_

_Have you any idea how difficult it is to keep the little line in Lord-Captain Commander at the right place this late at night?!!_


	10. GreenBrown: A Pair Of Gloves ::3::

**For a pair of gloves and the heck of it** _(Part 3)_

_- - - -_

_Author's Note: I compressed the first parts of this story into a new "part 1", so what is now called "part 2" is newly uploaded. Read that first, for this is "part 3"._

_- - - -_

It took Yamela more cursing to scale the wall than it would have taken her in her youth. She had lost the climber's strength in her fingers. By the time she rolled over the top and sought a shadow her arms trembled violently, and her fingers felt jelly-like.

The front wall of the Fortress was white and perfectly smooth, a climber's nightmare. The back walls, however, offered surprisingly many good handholds.

So all in all it had not been very difficult. Thus, she smiled, even though her timing with the sentries atop the wall was off. They faced each other and exclaimed that all was well with the night just as Yamela crept past, almost between the heels and cloak of one of them. She had luck, managed to ease over the wall's inner edge, and drop right onto a staircase leading down. Down in the shadows of the courtyards her task became simple.

From shadow to shadow she flitted, enjoying herself as she hadn't done since she'd been hardly more than a girl. She'd been a top-story larcenist, in the service of older and more hardened thieves, and she'd been very good. Only her last act of larceny had ended her in a court room, facing the city's lord. Only the presence of his Aes Sedai advisor had saved her. Instead of being punished for her crimes, she had been bundled off to Tar Valon.

But the old instincts remained. She had memorized her purchased sketchy layout of the Fortress, and followed it diligently. So finally she began her second climb, this one easy, up the vines on a castle wing's wall. Her greatest trouble was not being pricked by the thorns.

The vines led her only a floor short. She thanked the summer heat that a side window had been left open where she could sneak in, and began to manoeuvre the corridors. This was more dangerous. There were fewer shadows to hide in. But there also were few people about. Her ears were pricked, but all her senses told her that she was as good as alone.

She hid behind a tapestry when she heard soldiers marching down the corridor, and in curiosity peered after them when they were safely past. Her ears had told her four sets of boots, but she proved wrong; there were only three afoot, and –

Her heart skipped a beat. Limp between two of them, unmistakable, was Feyon.

Yamela made an instant decision. Forget the silly contest, forget the bloody gloves. Feyon needed help.

She wove Air, split it three ways, and formed clubs – to save a sister she could use the Power as a weapon – and gave all three Whitecloaks a good whack over the head. They all collapsed, the only sound being the thudding and clanking of bodies and armour hitting the carpeted stone floor.

Feyon fell, too. Yamela hurried forwards.

- - -

Jahra had done well as a laundry woman during the day – it amused her to try physical labour, and she enjoyed the amiable chatter of Reene Boggun's two daughters. They were uncomplicated women, with uncomplicated lives and dreams of which young officer they wanted to marry, worries no worse than when they would find time to mend a skirt which had gotten itself a tear. Jahra felt comfortable in their company.

They knew what she was, and what their mother was, and wherever her talent at laundry failed to suffice they covered for her. They even gave way to her wish to fetch the dirty linens from the Lord-Captain Commander. After an assurance that she intended him no harm.

She worked her way through the high officer's quarters, finally her target's, and emerged in triumph. She had warned the Boggun women that she did not intend to stay long thereafter, and as she carried her basket from the Lord-Captain Commander's quarters she fully intended to hold to that. To stay longer now would be dangerous.

Her error was her tendency not to look where she was going. She roamed corridors, her fingers itched to open doors or jot down notes, instead of leaving her basket with the Boggun girls and heading straight out – as would have been the sensible choice. But she couldn't miss the opportunity to explore. How many Aes Sedai had wandered about the Fortress of the Light? How many Aes Sedai had – she smiled – changed bed linens for Whitecloak officers?

There was so much she might learn –

With a sigh, she steeled herself, ducked beneath a wall hanging into the servant's back corridors, and sought the way back to the laundry.

It was the smell that stayed her. The scent of dust and age and books, books, books. The door was ajar – someone had been sloppy – and she had a view into a magnificent library.

Jahra hesitated. She shouldn't. She really shouldn't. She stood in the doorway, basket on her hip and peered in. How would she excuse her presence in the library, if anyone asked?

If she put the basket down, she could claim to be just another servant, not necessarily a laundry woman, perhaps sent on an errand by mistress Meidara. Her entire day was, in kind, a single long errand from the First Maid, so she thought she might be able to utter the words.

She set the basket down. It wouldn't take long. She would just have a look, she told herself. A peek. A short one. Just for a moment or two.

- - -

The servant's back exit through the wall doorway in the wall was secured by four guards, three of which played dice beneath the light of a torch and one slept. Still, to sneak past them would not work. And this late at night, to walk out the main entrance was no option either. It had to be the back way, the servant's way.

"We'll have to –" Yamela began, seizing for _saidar _again.

"I don't like to harm people without good cause," Feyon said sharply, catching her arm.

"They're just bloody _Whitecloaks_."

"That's prejudice. Not good cause."

"You sound like a Grey."

"Very well, let me put it this way. The more Whitecloaks we bother, the hotter the pursuit when we leave."

"Point taken." Yamela crouched in her shadow, snuck another look past the corner at the guards, and sighed. She could have put them to sleep, but not from a distance, and only one at a time. _Useless_.

Feyon eyed the walls. "Are you strong enough to lower me down from the wall?"

Yamela nodded. "But the sentries… we'll have to be quick." She thought for a moment, and said; "Listen. That staircase over there is in shadow. Follow me up it, quietly. Once we're up, we'll wait until the sentries are about to meet at the middle. I'll lower you down on the other side, and then hide while the sentry passes. Then you'll lower me down when I come back to the edge."

Feyon nodded tersely. "I'm glad the clouds hide the moon."

"These are Whitecloaks. They wouldn't have noticed us even if the moon was full."

"More prejudice. And isn't there an old wisdom against underestimating your foe?"

"But whoever wrote it had never met the _Whitecloaks_. Now follow me."

Yamela darted across the open space, Feyon like a shadow at her heels, just as the sentries boomed their blind nonsense about the night still being superbly well. They scrambled quietly up the staircase, and crouched close to the wall until the sentry was far enough away that his flapping cloak would hide their silhouettes from his companion, who walked towards them as his companion faced away.

Feyon climbed hesitantly over the wparapets. Yamela wove Air around her waist and lowered her hastily to the ground. When she hit, she stumbled. There was no time for excuses – the sentries' voices already boomed, they were about to turn. Yamela retreated back into the shadow by the stairs.

Too slow.

"Halt!" cried the man, and began running towards her. "Intruder on the wall! Intruder on the wall, _halt_!"

Yamela sprang up and made to leap over the edge. Feyon would catch her, she thought. Leap she would, and Feyon _must_ catch her. It was that, or fall to her death.

But another sentry appeared from the little house just where the stairs topped the wall. He must have sat hidden inside, likely dozing as he hadn't noticed her and Feyon earlier. Now he noticed, and he was fast. Before she could pass he had seized her arm in an iron grip and dragged her back from the edge.

"A woman!" he exclaimed, in a half-laughing voice. "Hold still! Not so fast, no use ending a splotch of blood down there, now is it?"

Yamela snarled, twisted in his grip and caught his elbow. She used it as a lever and pushed him face-first to the top of the wall. The other Whitecloak was already upon her, catching her by the hair. She kicked wildly and hit low on his belly, enough to make him groan and bend forward. She snatched hold of the hand in her hair, bent the thumb back, and tumbled the second Whitecloak face-down atop the first, again using the arm as leverage. Then she threw herself over the edge, hoping Feyon would catch her.

Cool night air, and a free fall. She bit her lip to stop from shrieking, and braced for impact. If she hit the ground she would at least break her arms and legs, perhaps more, but that could be Healed. As long as she didn't break her bloody _neck_.

Impact came in the form of a loop of Air around her waist. The last bit down was slow and easy. She fell to her knees on the ground and wanted to bless the solid surface.

Feyon yanked at her. "Come on!"

A crossbow bolt thudded in beside her. Atop the wall they shouted. The two Aes Sedai needed no further encouragement. Feyon hitched her riding skirts, Yamela was glad for her thief's practical black trousers, and they ran in among the back alleys.

"The Warders," Feyon panted as they ran. "I let the bond show as soon as I was across the wall. Dakeel is in the city. Nearby. He's coming towards us."

Yamela uncloaked her own bonds. It was a relief to feel them in her head again – and it was relief which flooded from the bonds. "The twins – are here," she said. They, too, were running to meet them. They must have been with Dakeel.

On silent agreement, she and Feyon made a turn and let the bonds guide them. The sooner they met up with their Warders, the better.

Around another corner and there came the _Gaidin_. Yamela, longer of limb and with better stamina than her friend, sprinted ahead. She ran right into the embrace of her twin Warders, throwing up one arm around the neck of each. It was dark and their cloaks made them nigh impossible to see, but it didn't matter: she had the bonds, and she knew exactly where they were.

They caught her, she laughed, and they hugged her. Durrak swung her about and set her down, then waggled an admonishing finger in her face.

"Don't you ever –"

"– ever ever ever –" Vaston added lowly over his shoulder. He was already on guard in the direction she had come from.

"– do that to us again."

"I've missed you too," she said, patting Durrak's cheek. At the corner of her eye she could see Dakeel and Feyon having a much more intense reunion, but Dakeel had swept his cloak about the both of them and there wasn't much to see.

"Is she okay?" Vaston asked.

Durrak took her shoulders and peered at her in the dark. "Are you okay? Are you hurt?"

She shrugged him off. "You would have known if I was hurt," she reminded him. "What did you expect? To dive into the fire and save me from the very stake? I can take care of myself."

"We know."

"But it's _our_ duty."

Another hand seized her arm. One Durrak made no attempt to stop, so she wasn't concerned. She turned to find Jored staring at her, intense brown eyes in the depths of a raised cowl.

"Yamela Sedai. Why isn't Jahra with you?" he asked urgently.

"We all went in alone –" she began.

"You don't know where she is?" He thought on this a moment, made a decision, and made to dart off in the direction of the Fortress.

"Jored, halt!" Yamela commanded.

The young Warder hesitated, peered back at her. He stroked his sword-hilt and pointed. "She's in that direction. I'm going to –"

"We spooked the sentries on the way out," Yamela told him. "You are _not_ –"

"They have no reason to be on watch for me –"

"Since when have Whitecloaks needed a reason? A man with a sword and a bloody Warder's cloak sneaking about near their walls? I don't intend to explain to Jahra that I let you run off and get yourself _killed_. Especially not when it's my fault the guards are spooked."

Jored glared at her. His voice sounded as if he had worked it between hammer and anvil until it was hard and sharp like a blade. "If that's where my Jahra is, I'm _going_, and with all due respect, _Yamela Sedai_, I don't belong to you. I don't _down_ on your command."

Yamela only smiled. "One step further, Jored _Gaidin_, and I'll tie you up in Air and have Durrak and Vaston _sit_ on you, then apologize to Jahra when she comes back."

The steel in his voice turned brittle. "What if she doesn't come back?"

Fear gripped Yamela's heart. "Is she hurt?"

"She's not hurt yet, but she's _frustrated_. What if they've taken her?"

"Is anyone physically holding her?"

He frowned, thought, and finally said; "No. She's walking free. As far as I can tell."

"She knows where you are," Yamela reminded him. "We'll just stay here – this should be a safe distance – and wait for her."

"She was impersonating a laundry woman," Feyon said from beneath the shelter of Dakeel's arm. The cloak hid both their bodies and her face seemed to float in the empty air, slightly beneath his. "If she hasn't been found out, she should be able to just walk out. And if so, best would be to leave her to it." Yamela and Feyon exchanged a look. "How ironic if she _wins_."

Jored's expression twisted with rage, but he didn't take a step. Yamela knew that he took her warning seriously. She _would_ have Durrak and Vaston sit on him. "Begging pardon, Aes Sedai," he growled, "but you should be ashamed of yourselves. You've risked your lives for nothing but a prank, _and_ the lives and sanity of your Warders, and on top of it, you dragged _Jahra_ –"

"Enough!" hissed Yamela. He quietened, but his glower was as fierce as her own.

"Hasn't Jahra taught him _manners_?" Feyon wondered, one eyebrow raised.

"Usually, his manners are excellent," Yamela muttered in response. "But I'll have to talk to Jahra. A _Gaidin_ can't lose his temper just because he's under a bit of stress."

"But Yam, he's right," said Durrak softly.

Yamela stared at him.

"It was irresponsible of you."

"Childish, even."

She looked from one sombre twin face, to the other. Their bonds were both coolly unyielding. She could tell them to be silent, but she couldn't make them change their minds. She could berate them for speaking out where Feyon and Dakeel and Jored could hear, but she didn't much mind Jored hearing as she had no secrets from Jahra; and a glance at Dakeel told him that he had shifted uncomfortably, as if to speak up, but Feyon had just put a hand over his mouth and given him a withering look. He quietened. They had clearly talked between themselves of this and intended to present a united front. Yamela looked to her twins. "Once upon a time the two of you would have found this vastly entertaining."

The twins sighed as one. "Once upon a time –"

"– Anthared would have been here to call it irresponsible and foolish –"

Yamela's breath hitched. It still hurt. Only now did she truly understand Anthared's pain through all those years. Light, but it _hurt_.

"– and Anthared would have been the voice of reason." Both twins paused to look at her, their bonds full of sympathy. Her two suns of joy. She gave them a reassuring smile, and they went on: "And the sad truth is, Yam –"

"– _someone_ has to be the voice of reason."

"But we do wish it could be _you_."

Yamela straightened her skirts – or began to, before she realised she was still wearing trousers. "We will discuss this later. In private," she crisped.

The two of them bowed.

"Don't sneak off, Jored _Gaidin_," Yamela hissed then. "Don't think I've forgotten you. Come back here. _Now_."

He had nearly made it into a side alley, but now Jored meekly returned. Meekly, but his hand rested on his sword's hilt, and his Warder cloak billowed free behind him as if in anger.

"If Jahra's bond indicates danger, tell me. Until then, we stay here. She'll come to us."

Yamela had her own bond to Jahra. Nothing like the Warder bond, but she had Healed her friend several times, and the entire night she had known roughly which direction she could have found her.

Still, if Jored indicated danger, she would let him run, and she and the twins would follow. _Let_ him run? Had Jahra been in trouble, it would have taken more than the twins sitting on him to stop him. He was Warder. He would stop only at Jahra's word. If he lost his patience, he might hurt himself trying to escape a noose of Air, or hurt the twins if they were in his way.

He took up guard ten steps from where the others had seated themselves, at the edge of a fountain placed against a wall – Durrak posted himself at the other end of the little group – and stared into the darkness. His Warder's cloak hid his still figure from view, even to a careful eye. That was okay. Yamela had Healed him, too, more than once, and she would know if he began to sneak away again.

She hoped Jahra would come soon, before Jored decided to cause trouble.

But Feyon was right. It would be beyond irony if _Jahra_ won.


	11. GreenBrown: A Pair Of Gloves ::4::

**For a pair of gloves and the heck of it** _(Part 4 - last part)_

_- - - -_

Feyon must have told her Warder the entire story, for the look on his face was none too pleased. He held her and rocked her side to side as if he couldn't quite believe she was safe. Yamela listened with half an ear. Feyon told of her many preparations, so that she would not have to lie, and Yamela was impressed with how she had formulated phrases and created truths beforehand. Planned as neatly and logically as if she'd been a White. Yamela hadn't known Feyon capable of it.

Then came the tale of her meeting with the Lord-Captain Commander, which started well but took a turn for the worse.

"Then I did the only thing I could do," she finally finished. "I fainted."

Dakeel looked alarmed, and she patted his arm. "No worries, Dakeel. I mean I _pretended_ to faint. It beats being hit over the head any day. Which I believe is standard procedure with suspected Aes Sedai."

Dakeel swallowed and nodded. A rabbit might have worn his expression, thought Yamela in amusement, while watching the wolf pass his burrow.

Feyon leaned comfortably into his embrace. They were always like that; so affectionate, even in front of others. Oh, some Aes Sedai muttered, and some of the Warders teased Dakeel, but the two of them didn't mind.

"I thought it would be easier to escape from somewhere else than the Lord-Captain Commander's own apartments, so I let them carry me off, and that's when Yamela found me…"

Yamela stopped listening. She folded her hands in her lap and tried to be patient. The twins kept guard, as did Jored. The twins… their accusation of childishness had stung her more than she cared to admit. Burn them, but they were right; _someone_ had to be the reasonable one. And with Anthared gone, it had to be her. She was Aes Sedai, Light help her. She had to act the part. It was just… sometimes she needed away from it, too.

She sighed.

The bonds in her head were still agitated, still wary. She suspected they wouldn't calm until they were all safe back in Tar Valon. Personally, with her Warders near, she felt safe enough to lie down and sleep. With her Warders near, she might have slept comfortably in the heart of the Fortress of the Light. That's what Warders were for; to keep you safe. To be your eyes, your ears, your protection while you worked or while you rested. To be as faithful and devoted as your own shadow.

She wished Anthared –

Anthared was dead, and it hurt to remember it, but at least by now she could think his name without weeping. Instead, she smiled. Not a strong smile, but still a _smile_. He had taught the twins so well. She could recognize his instruction in how the two of them worked. He had been a fine Warder. The best.

She kept Arron firmly from her mind. He had been her Warder a couple of weeks, no more, and she didn't want to remember him. There was no smile there. There was only pain and anger. No regret, though. Yamela didn't believe in regret.

Durrak had turned his eyes inward. When she met his gaze, he blinked with one eye in secret encouragement. Then he resumed his watch of the surrounding night.

Yamela felt better. "Who says Warders can't read your thoughts..?" she murmured.

"I don't know. The Reds?" Feyon replied in a sleepy voice. Only the tip of her nose showed outside Dakeel's cloak, and his alert face above it, half-hidden by the cowl.

It brought a chuckle. The Reds _indeed_.

Smirking, Yamela lay herself sideways on the edge of the fountain to doze as she waited. It had been a long day.

- - -

Vaston woke her with a hand to her shoulder. It couldn't be more than a few moments later. "They're sending out patrols," he informed her quietly. "I think we should move."

Yamela stifled a yawn and nodded.

"Durrak and Dakeel are following their movements. I'll lead the two of you further away –"

"_Further_ _away _–" came a hiss from Jored.

So he hadn't snuck away while she slept. Well, of course not. The twins would have sat on him if he'd tried, and even if he could have broken free from them, it would have woken her up. Yamela patted his arm. "Not further away," she decided. "We need to keep close to the Fortress, in case Jahra needs us."

"But if she does, how will we get in?" Feyon murmured.

"We'll handle that problem when we get to it. Jored, what says the bond?"

Jored grimaced. "She's calm. She's content. Likely, she's _reading_."

"Reading?" Feyon repeated. "Why would she be –"

Yamela sighed. "My guess is that she found a library."

Feyon rolled her eyes. "_Browns_!"

"The good news is, I doubt they're looking for their suspected Aes Sedai in the _library_."

"That's just because no one has seen fit to educate them on the habits of the _Browns_."

"_Now_ who's full of prejudice?" Yamela muttered.

"Prejudice is unavoidable. What matters is whether or not we act on it."

"Here's a prejudice for you, my dear ladies," Vaston said with a dramatic bow, "if we stand about much longer even the Whitecloaks will find us. And it's a prejudice I humbly suggest we _act_ on."

No one argued.

- - -

After that they kept on the move. Dakeel and Durrak returned now and then to report on the movements of the Whitecloak patrols, and Vaston – helped somewhat by Jored – kept the two Aes Sedai carefully out of their way. After a while Vaston and Dakeel switched places.

Yamela found herself rather lonely, as Dakeel and Feyon immediately began to converse in low, angry voices, apparently a private matter, and Jored was unlikely to say much. She had taken his arm, and patted it from time to time, but she might as well have patted a stone, and she couldn't think of anything to say to him.

"Jahra's on the move," was all he finally said.

"Where to?"

"She's been moving about a bit, but now she's heading firm in one direction. I hope she's heading _out_."

Yamela patted his arm again. "Then lead us to where she's coming out," she said. "I'll have Durrak accompany you. Don't move too quickly – remember, if there _is _trouble, three more Warders and two Aes Sedai make a lot of a difference in a fight."

"Yes, Yamela Sedai," he agreed. Then trotted off in the direction where Yamela could feel… Vaston. Oh, very well. She _was_ the only one who could tell them apart, and it didn't matter if he took Vaston or Durrak with him to run point. As long as he didn't run point _alone_.

They made a tense stop behind the houses across from the Fortress's servant's exit, as near the Fortress as they dared go. Only the Warders in their camouflaging cloaks dared visit the shadows from where the exit could be seen. Yamela and Feyon stayed further back, and Yamela battled her curiosity. She could easily have borrowed a cloak, but the cloak was not infallible, and the fewer people who peeked around corners the safer.

To keep Jored from it, however, would have been positively cruel. Yamela didn't bother to reprimand him for hovering in that shadow, in open sight if a keen eye turned his way, hidden only by his cloak and his wit to keep still.

Not that his wit was very stable at the moment.

Luckily, it didn't take long before Jahra came strolling out, calm as ever, with a small sack dangling from her hand. Durrak seized Jored's shoulder to keep him still, but Jored shrugged the grip off and abandoned the shadows. He darted out into the open space and ran to meet Jahra, uncaring for who might see him. As soon as he reached Jahra he folded an armful of his colour-shifting cloak about her and ushered her forth at a half-run back to the others.

Yamela and Feyon exchanged quiet greetings with the Brown, and Feyon asked what was in the sack.

"Books," Jahra replied simply.

"No gloves?" Feyon wondered in surprise.

Jahra shook her head.

Feyon and Yamela exchanged another look, this time in surprised relief. So the Brown hadn't won, after all. Their self-respect was saved.

None of them wanted to stand there longer than necessary, and with Durrak taking point and Vaston tail, they moved again, now away from the Fortress. Much deeper in among the city's buildings, near a boisterous inn whose light and drunkards fell out over the streets, they paused. Vaston and Durrak roamed more widely to make certain there was no pursuit, while the three Aes Sedai waited in a quiet side street with Dakeel and Jored.

Which left Yamela even more alone than before. Feyon and Dakeel, their voices harsh but hushed, picked up the same argument which had been running on and off the entire night.

Jahra spoke lowly to Jored, her hand to his chest in a calming gesture. But Jored listened to the little Brown only for a moment, then interrupted her. Not with words. Instead he fell to his knees, took her hands, and brought them to his face. He kissed her great serpent ring, the knuckles of her other hand, then turned her hands about and kissed her palms.

"Promise me you'll never do such a thing again," he asked of her – or perhaps _demanded_ was a better word. "_Promise_."

Jahra blinked as if to stay tears. She stroked his shoulder-long hair, smiled when he looked up at her. "Dearest Jored. I promise."

Feyon and Dakeel didn't look up from their argument, but Yamela watched the Brown and her Warder through narrowed eyes. She felt a nagging suspicion. A _very_ curious nagging suspicion… but one for later.

Vaston joined her. He had little to report. Dakeel's bond was calm enough; nothing was about. It was safe to move on. She spoke up, loud enough that her two sisters could hear. "It's clear. Time to go. The faster we leave, the better."

"I'm not coming with you," Feyon said. "I'm staying in Amador."

Dakeel muttered something beneath his breath, and Yamela stared at her friend. "Are you _mad_?"

Feyon smiled. "No. I'm under orders." Beside her, Dakeel shook his head in disgust.

Yamela's eyes narrowed. This little venture had in large part been Feyon's idea. Feyon had suggested Amadicia to begin with. She must have had plans to stay all along. But there was no way she could ask further. If Feyon had orders, she had orders. She reached to take her friend's hands. "How long will you be gone?"

"I don't know."

"What will you do?"

Feyon smiled. "Dakeel plays the harp, and he'll make a decent gleeman. I can sing well enough. That's how we'll disguise ourselves. Playing in taverns. Hearing gossip."

Yamela wouldn't say it sounded dangerous. Likely that's what Dakeel had already been saying. _Arguing_. She wondered what Feyon was actually there to do, but… it was none of her business. Feyon worked with the Green's Eyes and Ears, and if Yamela poked her nose in she could count herself lucky if it cost her no more than a year of menial labour on a farm.

She _hated_ menial labour.

She'd have to poke very carefully. Again, _later_.

Jahra had realised that this was Ajah business, and turned politely aside.

"Take care of yourself," Yamela said. "That's an order, too."

Feyon stood, tiptoed, and gave her a pecking kiss on the cheek. "I will, sister. You too. don't worry, I think I'll enjoy this, And besides," she smirked, "I still have gloves to deliver."

"You don't –"

"No, I don't have to. But it would amuse me. Just think of the look on his _face_."

- - -

Yamela and Jahra, circled by their three Warders, went to gather the things they had left at a small inn in near the harbour. Yamela explained her odd choice of dress as _practical_ and _comfortable_ to her friend's shaking head, but was oddly relieved to be back in her customary silk riding skirts. She had despised skirts when she was younger – it was almost impossible to climb in them – but over the years, they must have grown on her. Something about the opportunity to flaunt such fine fabrics appealed to her. Or perhaps it was just the swishing sound they made when she walked.

The Warders would accept nothing less than immediate departure, and the two Aes Sedai found no reason to argue. Jored and Durrak stayed with them while Vaston went in search of a ship, and they left as soon as he returned. He looked smug when he informed her that to leave Amador in the middle of the night like this would cost her a good deal of her annual supply of gold, but she only shrugged. What was gold for, if not to be used?

Once safe upon the departing ship and alone in their cabin – she had ushered the investigating Warders out… _after_ they had searched every cubby and every crack in the entire place… _after_ they had made certain there were no hidden back exits… and _after_ she had promised to call them in case she found a Whitecloak battalion beneath the bolted-down stools and table, waiting to swoop on her and Jahra. Jahra had giggled at that. The Warders hadn't thought it funny at all. She'd had to dig out Durrak from under the table when he'd gone to make sure.

_Honestly_.

But once _finally_ alone in their cabin, Yamela took away the book which had as if by magic appeared in Jahra's hands. There was that nagging suspicion of hers to address, and her curiosity allowed her to wait no longer. She pointed to one of the stools. "Sit. We must talk."

Jahra blinked at her, but sank down as indicated.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Yamela demanded.

"Tell you what?"

"Blood and ashes, Jahra," Yamela laughed. She stooped to hug her friend, then held her at arm's length and grinned as broadly as she knew how. "I'm a Green. Don't you think I can tell when someone's bedding her Warder?"

Jahra looked positively perplexed, and for a moment Yamela thought her guess had gone awry. Then a rosy colour began to spread over Jahra's cheeks, and she lowered her eyes. Her hands smoothed her skirts unnecessarily.

"So I'm right?" Yamela asked in triumph.

Jahra nodded wordlessly. Her customary airiness had fled her with remarkable abruptness. Yamela wanted to smirk. There were only a few select things that could do that to Jahra – and it was always worth the trouble to take note of the few.

"Light." Yamela backed away two steps and thumped down on the bunk bed. "I wouldn't have thought it of you, Jahra. I wouldn't have. Oh, Light." She laughed.

"Don't tell anyone."

Sombrely, Yamela promised that she wouldn't. Of course she wouldn't. This was between Jahra and Jored, and she was Green enough to know that what went on between a Warder and his Aes Sedai could be a very private matter indeed. But that was no reason for _her_ not to pry. _She_ was Jahra's best friend. If Jahra minded, she could simply refuse to answer. "So… what does Jored think?"

"He's confused."

"He's always adored you."

"I know."

Yamela leaned back with a sigh. "You know, Jahra. You made a good choice in him. You should take good care of him."

Now it was Jahra who laughed. Her face was rather red, but she did laugh, and her eyes twinkled when they met Yamela's. "That, sister, is exactly what I'm _doing_."

Yamela blinked. "One more thing. That promise you made him. What was it?"

"To never more leave him behind on purpose."

Yamela sighed with relief. "Well, as long as you won't refuse all future fun."

"I wouldn't do that."

"I'm glad to hear it. Now, tell me what you were doing in the Fortress. You were impersonating a laundry woman, weren't you? But why no gloves? Feyon seemed to think you would win. I could tell she was surprised."

"I'll have you know that I had a full _eleven pairs_ with me when I left the Lord-Captain Commander's chambers. But then I passed the library, and… well…"

"You _didn't_," grinned Yamela.

Jahra's face turned scarlet again. Her airiness had not quite managed to return, despite the change of subject. "I forgot the entire laundry basket in a servant's corridor behind the library."

Yamela laughed until she wept.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

_Author's Note:_

This one has been finished for a while but I've been debating with myself whether or not I should post it. I finally decided to - since waiting would take forever. It doesn't really feel "right" to post it now, due to some revelations here above, since these are things that become relevant a couple of years after the "Aes Sedai" sequence, but on the other hand... they're "Aes Sedai" and a couple of short stories in the future, so waiting could become a Wait Forever. So swallow the revelations and read on when the explanations show up.

Hey, I already said there was no chronological order to "Warder tales". Live with it.


	12. Black: To Never Die

**To Never Die**

Nevien was born on an outlying farm in the Borderlands.

When she was eight she hid in a cupboard and saw trollocs carry off her mother. Her father and the others hunted the trollocs down and brought her mother back. She heard from the conversations of the adults how they had found her in a cookpot, alive but screaming, and she died of the burns a few days later.

Nevien sat by her bed and watched her mother's struggle, too frightened to look aside. She never quite got the image of her mother's pain out of her head. Injury was something terrible. Death was something difficult, something arduous and agonising, something to be dreaded.

When she was thirteen her father was hung for a Darkfriend. His was the only farm in the area not attacked by trollocs for the past two years. Nevien watched that, too, unable to look aside, but now for a different reason. Her father had been a changed man since his wife's demise. There was a gloom to him, a sense of defeat.

And he had been guilty as charged. A man had come to their house, a year to the day after Nevien's mother died. Nevien had not been asleep on the sofa as everyone had assumed. She had been awake, and she remembered how the man had calmly asked her father if he wanted to fetch his daughter, too, out of a trolloc's cookpot?

That, Nevien's father had not wanted. So whatever the man had offered or demanded, Nevien's father had agreed.

So as her father had the noose set about his neck, tears rolled down his cheeks, his chest hitched now and then with silent sobs, and he met her eyes. He stared into her eyes as if seeing there the life he would never have. His gaze was full of sadness and love and pity, but no regret. Nevien could not look aside. Death was something difficult, something arduous and agonising, something to be dreaded, and now it would befall her father, too? She could not look aside.

The rope did not break his neck, and he twitched and jerked, eyes bulging and mouth gaping, as he died. The crowd cheered. His twitching grew weaker and weaker, until finally it was gone. His feet jerked a few extra times, his jaw worked soundlessly. He died with his eyes open and staring.

She gathered her courage when she realised that all left to swing on that rope was her father's corpse. She slipped through the crowd, and tugged at the sleeve of the magistrate. She asked him where she was to go.

"Get your paws off me, you Dark-spawned whelp!" the magistrate snapped and snatched his sleeve out of her grip. "Go home. Go into the Blight. Move into a whorehouse, or walk to Tar Valon and turn yourself Aes Sedai, if you bloody can. See if anyone cares!"

Nevien, too numb with fear and shock to weep, too resilient in bone and blood to break down, had done the last. It appealed to her the most. Perhaps in Tar Valon, she would not have to see anyone else die. It was said the Aes Sedai worked miracles - perhaps one could have saved her mother. It was said they lived very long lives. Perhaps if she was Aes Sedai, she would not have to die. Not so soon.

For if there was one thing Nevien had learned in her childhood, it was that she never, ever, ever wanted to die.


	13. Grey: Hard Times

**Hard Times**

There were three of them, all rough-looking, quite the type for roadside robbers. Bessal supposed they wished her to pay some sort of tribute for using 'their' bridge.

She would refuse to pay, of course, and she would be sure to report them as soon as she reached the next garnisoned village. Say what you will of Whitecloaks, but in their domain they were likely to keep the peace, and their neighbours oft did the same – if only to keep the Whitecloaks from coming to keep the peace _for_ them.

She kept her mare at a steady walk onto the bridge, kept her seat easy and her expression perfectly Aes Sedai-smooth – amazing that she had once, as an Accepted, found that controlled serenity difficult. Now it came as easy as breathing.

Her mare, Willow, clopped uneasily over the not-too-steady wooden planks of the bridge beneath her hooves, and Bessal patted her neck to encourage her. The water foamed around the rocks under the bridge, visible through the cracks between the planking. It was not a bridge any sane person would pay to cross.

Still, she doubted the seven badly-armed men were there to simply enjoy the view, or for any other trivial reason . For yes, there were _seven_, not three. When she seized the Source, her enhanced vision had caught sight of the others. They weren't very well hidden, and not very disciplined. They kept peeking out through the leaf-work and had thus revealed themselves.

The men blocked her path as she was about to leave the bridge. She prepared a couple of weaves of Air in case she needed to shove them aside. They looked like trouble, and it was better to be prepared.

"A fine day to you, goodman," Bessal said pleasantly.

They closed about her horse too quickly for manners. One began to snatch after Willow's reins, but Willow didn't like strange men. She tossed her head and danced back, her shoed hooves loud on the creaking planks. Then the mare laid her ears back; trapped between the noisy bridge and the man who launched after her bridle.

"Fine day's it, m'lady," grinned one of the men. "And we musts bother ya for this-'ere _toll_ when ya –"

Willow made a little leap to the side, but Bessal held her seat easily. She was growing used to Willow's nervous prancing.

"Eh, when ya pass this-'ere bridge."

So it was to be the classical _toll_ argument. She wasn't particularly surprised at the men's choice of prey. She appeared to be a fine-dressed woman, riding a fine horse all on her own. And for all her ageless features, there were people who just didn't know the look, and who didn't understand what she was.

"On whose authority is this toll to be collected?" Bessal asked.

The man finally caught Willow's reins, and the mare froze as if struck, her head high and nostrils wide.

The 'hidden' four had begun to come out of hiding.

The one who had spoken kept his grin as wide as ever. "Author'ty? We's need no autor'ty aside from this-'ere, m'lady." He patted the worn sword at his hip. Not an impressive weapon at all. It looked like half the blade would disappear in a cloud of rust if he shook it too hard. "Now please, get yee off that fine horse a'yours, and –"

She neatly pulled one glove off her hand, tucked it into her belt, then held the hand up. The sun caught her golden serpent ring.

With a collective hiss and stutter, the three men closest to her withdrew. Willow snorted contempt at the man who had held her reins, as he now backed away. The mare sounded much as if his retreat had been all her doing.

Collectively, they stared at her. Their expressions varied between awe, sullen anger, and white-faced fright. One man, after darting glances at the others, spoke up. "Eh… hoy, m'lady Aes Sedai… sorree to disturb, m'lady Aes Sedai." He bowed. "Ye'll not… ye'll not turns us into somethin' _hairy_, m'lady? We're just a-tryin' to make some sort-a _livin'_, are we."

She smiled assurance, resetting the glove onto her hand. "Not today, goodman." There was no reason to be rude. Not even to roadside robbers. "But I would suggest you find another line of work."

They exchanged glances. A couple sent quick glares at her, two of them muttered beneath their breaths. Not one moved against her, however, and the only one who openly dared to watch her, his eyes never wavering, was a big man at the back. There was no intent in his gaze – he just happened to be aiming it at _her_. Perhaps he was a little behind on his wits.

"Well m'lady Aes Sedai, these-here are hard times, are's they."

"They'll be harder still when you're caught and end up in the gallows," Bessal reminded him. "Just a friendly reminder, goodman, no threat intended. I'll be on my way, and let you be on with your business. May the Light bless you."

She gathered her reins and touched Willow's sides with her heels. The mare trotted eagerly ahead, and Bessal focused her eyes forward along the road. To look back now would be to show uncertainty. She was Aes Sedai, and had the reputation of Aes Sedai to uphold. Her instincts was good when it came to people; she was Aes Sedai, and they had showed themselves cowed enough simply by that.

Still, it made her neck tingle to turn her back to them.

Once her back was turned, the men immediately began to bustle. A rising bustle, and it took all of Bessal's trained self-control to keep from turning to see what the fuss was about. The tingle at the back of her neck grew more insistent. But she had an Aes Sedai's cool facade to keep.

Behind her was an apparent disagreement, in hushed tones… interrupted by a shout, the slap of someone's hand connecting with flesh, and the _twang_ of a crossbow fired.

The bolt whistled past without touching her, but Willow exploded off to the side. For an impossibly long moment Bessal hung in the air, wondering where her horse had gone, but then gravity claimed its due and Bessal toppled head-first into the road-side ditch.

- - -

It wasn't much later that her eyes opened. All she saw was a blurred, dispassionate face. One of the robbers. The big one who had been watching her. As she tried to focus her eyes, he suddenly spun about, and _shoved_… shoved someone.

The someone crashed to the road with a loud grunt.

They were all there, Bessal realised groggily. All the seven roadside robbers, facing her where she lay crumbled in that ditch, her limbs all in a disorder and her – she tried to grasp for the Source, but she could hardly see, could hardly think. Source. The Power. She reached…

"Now what are you about, big fella?" whined one man loudly. His inflection was quite another from the one who had spoken to her at the bridge.

But the tall man did nothing, said nothing. He had placed himself at the edge of the ditch, between them and her, and all he appeared to be doing was looking at them. Standing there, hands empty, posture easy, he might have been a statue of passivity, stone and menacing in just how he loomed, but essentially harmless. There was a cudgel in a loop on his belt, a knife on his other hip, but he did not reach for them.

"Go'n, Mas. Get ye out o' our way." Another came up to the tall man as if to clap him on the shoulder – very bravely done, it occurred to Bessal – but as he reached his hand out the so-called Mas caught his wrist.

"No," Mas said.

"_No_? What d'ye mean, _no_? Don' think yee've –"

"I mean," said Mas in the slow, deliberate voice of someone explaining the obvious, "that you will not harm her."

They stared at him. None of them said anything for a while. No one seemed to dare. The man whose wrist Mas held was released, and he withdrew out of arm's reach, massaging his hand.

"But –" spluttered the one Mas had shoved. He was back on his feet, and his face was reddening. Rage, likely as much for his humiliation as for anything else. "But –"

Mas took a sudden step towards him and the man's teeth clamped shut on whatever he had been about to say. For so big a man, Mas could apparently move very quickly.

"Come, Mas, what's she to ye, ey? She's bein' a Tar Valon witch, she is, while we're – ye _knows_ us!"

Mas shrugged.

"I bets she's got a good deal o' coins on her," came a greedy voice. "Look a'her! All fancy dresses and –" He paused to lick his lips. "Even that ring o' hers is worth good money, if you knows where to sell it."

"That-there _head_ o' hers is gold-worth, if ya know where t' sell it," gruffed another voice. "Haven't none o' ya seen her _face_? I know folk who don' much _like_ tha' sort'o face."

"_Gold_?" came an eager whisper. "_Face_? What's with her _face_?"

Mas made another sudden movement. A heavy _thud_ followed, and then sounds of outrage. More thuds, the crack of a bone breaking and someone giving a gurgling half-moan, half-shriek. Then Mas returned, backed to the edge of the ditch, his hands up in warning, his posture now somewhere between easy and forbidding. Still he said nothing.

"Too burned late," hissed one of the men. "Look at her. She's gettin' up again."

"Better smash tha' head o' hers before –"

Mas turned towards the speaker, spreading his hands in invitation. The man jerked back.

"Lalk, we'd better – we'd better go before –" began a whiny voice from the youngest of them, who tugged at another's sleeve.

The man addressed as Lalk shrugged the grip off, but he retreated a step. "S'pose so," he muttered. "Don' want no witchcraft – oy, see what yee've done, Mas? Yee've risked tha'-here witch settin' the badness on us! And we's could'a had _gold_, ya durned _dolt_!"

Bessal began to push herself up onto her elbows. Her ears rang, her head was heavy, her arms felt numb. She must have hit her head as she fell, she decided.

"What if she turns us to –"

"She's gettin up – run!" squealed another, but all he did was shuffle a few steps away, wide-eyed.

They all stared at Bessal in horrified fascination, as if she would any moment sprout horns and fur and tusks like a trolloc, but they wouldn't quite believe it until they saw it. With an effort, she lifted her face and looked at them. Then raised a hand, slowly, fingers arranged to point. At Lalk. She smiled. She must have looked terrible. She drew a weave of Fire and Air around herself, which would make her appear to glow. She let the light coalesce towards the tip of her fingers, slowly, as if something was building up.

She did not actually fear for her life. A moment ago, yes, she had been in a spot of danger, all drowsy and heavy-limbed. But now, with the Power in her and all of them visible before her, it would have been so easy a matter to sweep them all up in a single net of Air and Earth. She had been Aes Sedai for close on thirty years; this wasn't the first time she'd needed to defend herself. She hardly even felt afraid, and she wasn't certain that she could have _hurt_ them with the Power had she tried.

She didn't need to.

When Lalk turned to flee, the rest followed suit.

Only the big man, the one they had called Mas, remained. He watched his retreating companions for a while, until they were good and away. Bessal had let her face fall again, leaned on her elbows. When next she raised her eyes, she realised that a hand was extended, offered, before her. Gratefully she took it.

She expected him to hoist her rather roughly up, so was pleasantly surprised when he carefully supported and let her rise at her own gingerly pace. He helped her climb out of the ditch and back onto the solid road, and kept his arm out for her to lean on until she patted it, thanked him, and stood on her own.

Sharp pains stabbed her as she moved, but nothing appeared broken. Along with dirt, there was blood in her hair – she _had_ hit her head – but she did not feel nauseous, so she supposed she was okay. A Yellow had once told her that nausea was a bad thing with head hurts.

Done checking her own health, she whistled for Willow.

A whinny replied from somewhere not far away, and she sighed with relief. She'd been afraid the skittish animal had run too far to return easily, or broken limb or neck while fleeing.

While she waited for the mare to return to her, Bessal began to brush the road-dust from her riding habit as best she could.

Mas stood still and wordless beside her. He neither watched her too intently nor looked away. He simply… was.

"I thank you, goodman," she said. She wondered if it had been he, too, who had slapped that crossbow awry. In that case he had twice saved her life today. "If you were hurt, I can offer you Healing."

He shrugged dismissively. He went to pick up his little sack from where he had tossed it. Another man had dropped a sack when he fled, and Mas knelt by it to check its contents.

Bessal left him to it. She wove a quick weave of Air and Water to clean her hair and clothes – they were beyond mere brushing off – and muttered when she realised that her fall had torn the fabric of her skirt. Nothing major, but an annoyance all the same. No matter how neat a hand a seamstress had, that would not patch prettily. A fine riding habit ruined, and all because a few scoundrels had decided they didn't much like Aes Sedai.

She wondered, briefly, _why_. Everyone always had a reason. What was his? Had he somehow been wronged by the Tower..? Or had he simply heard too much Whitecloak propaganda? This close to Amadecia, a certain suspicion for Aes Sedai and the Power and anything related to it ran with the blood, but it rarely surfaced.

Willow trotted up and gave her a little shove.

"Hello there, silly girl," Bessal greeted her, and obligingly scratched her ears when the mare lowered her head. Then she rounded the horse, felt the slim legs for heat or swelling, checked for scratches or bleeding. To take good care of your horse was to get from here to there, her father had always said. He'd owned nothing more valuable than a long-faced cart horse, her dear father, but he'd taken good care of it all the same, and the beast had served him faithfully.

Willow was purebred and delicate – and a bit on the skittish side – with a soft step and a liking for sugar. Old Poke, the carthorse, had been happy for a simple carrot. Two very different horses.

The mare seemed no worse for wear, and her manner was more impatient than upset. Bessal patted her neck, thanking the Light for her good fortunes. Such a startled flight could lame a horse, and such a fall could break a rider's neck.

Bessal gathered the reins and prepared to climb into the saddle.

She gave a start when something touched her shoulder, half-turning to face the big man.

He gestured to the saddle, and then extended his hands again to help her up.

She let him. She still felt a little unsteady after her blow to the head, and the help was welcome. Then she arranged her skirts around her, patted Willow's slender neck, and looked down at Mas.

He met her eyes calmly. "I'll follow you, Aes Sedai," he said. "To the next town."

"I thank you again for your kindness, goodman, but I _can_ look after myself," Bessal told him. She had to consciously moderate her tone to say it. She was not angry with him; she was angry with herself. She _could_ look after herself, after all. All she had to do was to trust that warning tingle at the back of her neck when it appeared. It had saved her before. Aes Sedai reputation or no, how could she have been foolish enough to ignore it? Seven times a day she praised herself on her good eye for people, and when that same good eye tried to warn her she ignored it. Foolish.

He shook his head. Not arguing – just not agreeing either. He was very difficult to read. "I'll follow you," he repeated. He hitched his sack onto his shoulder and looked expectantly at her. Expectantly, but calmly, in wait for her to begin her ride.

Bessal studied him. He was a large, solid man – and no beauty, Light knew. His sturdy coat had been oft and crudely mended, his shirt and trousers the same. His boots looked to be just as old as he – a good two and a half decades, unless she missed her mark, but he was very collected for so young a man. Strong arms, strong shoulders, hands calloused and roughened. His face bore the marks of a brawler and was disturbingly devoid of expression. Only his eyes spoke to her; they were patient and steady. Bessal immediately trusted them.

She fiddled with her reins while she considered – beneath her, Willow stretched her head down to scratch it against a front leg. Bessal decided, quite deliberately, to trust her instinct. She smiled at the man. He didn't seem all that bright. "I will not be escorted by a man who hasn't given me his name," she said.

"Masrogen, Aes Sedai."

"Masrogen. Is that all?"

"Masrogen Bolair."

She nodded. "Very good, master Bolair. I am Bessal al'Duvin, and I am an Aes Sedai of the Grey Ajah. You may accompany me to the next town. I shall of course pay you for your services. You will find that the White Tower's gratitude is no mean thing."

- - -

The remainder of the day he walked beside her horse, never saying a word, and hardly looking at her. She glanced at him from time to time, but made no attempts to start any conversations. If he preferred silence, far be it from her to not respect that. He had been of much help to her, and she had no wish to make him uncomfortable.

When night began to fall, he said nothing. He continued to walk beside Willow, watched the woods around them, and apparently would have done the same throughout the night if she took no initiative to make camp.

She was tired after a day in the saddle – she hurt from her fall, too, to be honest – and she finally steered Willow into what looked like a likely clearing, just out of sight from the road. There was a small brook and some flat ground with the remains of another camp fire.

He immediately took a lap around the place, then felt the ashes in the fire place, tasted the water in the brook. He was done by the time she had dismounted.

He took her reins from her, firmly, but with a respectful nod. Then he led the animal down to the water. She watched, curious, as he began removing the mare's tack. Willow was ever nervous around strange men, but she accepted Masrogen's touch without as much as a twitching ear.

Bessal left her mare to Masrogen's care and decided to gather wood for a fire. Then she noticed, at her feet, Masrogen's little sack; atop it lay a pile of dry twigs, from small to fat and solid. He had been gathering as they travelled, she realised. She took the wood and began to set up for a fire.

- - -

"I'm sorry about your friends," Bessal said.

He paused his work to look up at her. She stirred the soup she was preparing with a small weave of Air, still secretly delighting in the use of the Power for such menial tasks. Willow nibbled at his coat as if to steal back his attention.

"Your friends," Bessal repeated. "I'm sorry that I came between you and them."

"Hardly knew them," he said nonchalantly, and returned to brushing Willow's golden coat. "Better without them."

Bessal considered. "They haven't usually hurt people, have they? Just taken money."

He nodded without looking at her.

"Why were you with them? You don't seem… the sort." He didn't; despite his slow speech and silence, he somehow appeared more sophisticated. Protecting her, to begin with, showed morals. Helping her rise, helping her mount, again showed courtesy and good manners. The way he had done it also suggested that he had helped ladies onto horses before.

And the most she could have expected from that Lalk would likely have been a smack on the bottom if he stood near enough to manage it while she mounted.

"A man needs to eat, Aes Sedai," he muttered.

"It's never good to be alone, is it?" she said softly.

He shrugged.

Bessal took out bread and cheese from her sack. It was the last of the cheese, but they should reach a town tomorrow where she could restock. "I hope you're hungry," she told him. "Dinner is ready."

- - -

The sun strained to reach its noon-day height just as they reached the town. Bessal left Willow at _Seven Running Men_, the smaller of the town's two inns. Smaller, but to Bessal's eye more trustworthy. The woman in charge of _The Brave Cavalier_ had been as sour as week-old milk. From _Seven Running Men_ she walked to the town market, glad for a chance to stretch her own legs. Masrogen heeled her meekly, clearing a path for her when he felt it necessary.

She didn't need to tell him to do such things. He just did it. It amazed her how courteous he was for so rough-looking a man. He opened doors, helped her carry, helped her mount and even _dis_mount given half a chance, and if anyone happened to look at her wrongly, the sight of him made them look hurriedly away. He didn't need to do much. At most, he returned the look or touched his cudgel. This was especially helpful now that she was afoot, no longer mounted. A fine dress and a serenely self-assured expression often did much to clear a way, but sometimes a bit of muscle was necessary.

She had promised to pay him, and of course she did.

He bowed as he pocketed the money, quirked a finger for her to follow, and led the way to the weaponry stalls.

He would greet the shopkeeper, ask curt questions, and then carefully examine what they offered him. Twice he declined everything. At the third stall he turned down three pieces which Bessal – from her nearby vantage point – could see no fault with, and settled finally for a long-bladed sword with a one-and-a-half-hand hilt, and a plain pommel. The cross-guard was studded, and so was the leather sheath that came with it, but those were the only decorations.

Masrogen paid what the shopkeeper asked without argument.

Then he turned to Bessal. He held the sword out horizontally before him, gripped at hilt and around the sheath, and bowed his head over it. "Thank you."

He apparently had sense not to call her "Aes Sedai" here in the market. They were still too close to Amadicia for that to be safe. She was glad – she had expected his tongue to slip. She had already seen two pairs of patrolling Whitecloaks, and she had no wish to draw their attention. She had not given them a second look, though they made her skin crawl, and she had been glad to note how Masrogen had done the same; hardly paid them any mind. That was the right way to avoid a patrol's attention; to not give _it_ attention.

"Can you use that?" she asked about the sword. It was a curious thing to buy first for a man long out of money. It was a curious thing to _thank_ her for.

Masrogen smiled brightly. He handled the blade like something dear he had once lost, and now replaced. It was with accustomed motions that he strapped the sheath to the belt and arranged it at his hip. The cudgel he moved further back.

"Tell me, master Bolair. In what line of work are you?"

He tapped the hilt of the sword with a gentle finger. "Mercenary."

"I can't remember meeting many mercenaries who don't wear obvious armour. Especially not the ones who seek work alone."

"Sold it. Been hard times."

"And you also sold your sword?" Bessal wondered, thinking that was a _very_ curious thing indeed for a mercenary to do.

"Broke the sword," he said. "Couldn't afford to replace it."

"Swords aren't necessarily expensive…"

"_Good_ swords are."

"How did you break it?"

"I hit a man."

"Whatever for?"

"He was in my way," said Masrogen simply.

"In your way," Bessal echoed. Funny how that seemed a rather unintelligent place to be. Then it struck her how this was the longest conversation she had had with Masrogen since meeting him. But Masrogen seemed content to say no more, so… "Why was he in your way?"

"We were storming a castle," he said. "Dark. Didn't see the stone pillar before I hit it."

"I thought it was a man you hit."

"Hit him first. The pillar was behind him."

"I see," said Bessal. She drew for breath again. This time, she did not need to pause and consider him. She still trusted his eyes. She was growing accustomed to his silence. She had noted how his very presence seemed to repel trouble. He was good company, in an odd way; uncomplicated, helpful without needing to be told. "Very well, master Bolair. If you might, you may continue to escort me north. I shall be passing quite a number of larger towns, and perhaps you will be able to find decent employment there. Until then I will be quite happy to pay you a silver a week."

That was a lot of money, she realised after speaking, but said was said. And money she had aplenty. She would be happier for his continued company than for the clink of coins in her purse.

Masrogen said nothing for a moment, did not move. The utter lack of response might have made Bessal nervous, except – as said – she was growing used to it. Then he gave her a little bow, and gestured for her to proceed.

She smiled to herself as she turned, back in the direction of the _Seven Running Men_. He closed up at her shoulder, calm and solid, his loping strides slowed to match her stately march.

It was as if he had always been there.

Bessal had already made up her mind. With her, Masrogen Bolair might well find employment on a more permanent basis than they had so far discussed.

_So far_. She would give it some time before she asked him, and let him ponder the matter at his own pace. A Warder bond wasn't a thing to rush into. She wanted him to be certain of what it meant before he accepted.

But she did not doubt for a moment that he _would_ accept.

After all, she had good instincts about people. When she listened to them.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Author's Note:

Take a moment to tell me what you think. It's a small repayment for all the time I spent _writing_ this.

No, that was wrong. _Write_ I would do in any case. _Post_ on fanfiction dot net, however, is something I do in order to receive feedback. So come on, throw me a bone.


	14. Brown: Dreams

**Dreams**

There were always new recruits, and they all followed the same pattern. The boys and young men waltzed about as if they not only were already bonded, but also knew every rock of the Blight intimately, and likely had Myrddraal for breakfast too. They would learn, of course. Every recruit had to learn.

To be accepted for training was a far toss from to be bonded. A very far toss. Especially for those who were accepted before their first shave.

Jored watched the youngest batch over the edge of his book. There were eight of them, still mere boys, now come fresh from a session in the practice yard with their grins wide and their moods high. Moments ago, a more senior group had trotted out to take their places. A group who had, at least, begun shaving.

They seemed to grow younger each year, Jored thought. Or perhaps it was he who grew older. He almost wished they could be allowed to stay that way, oblivious to darker realities. They likely dreamed of bonding Greens and having adventures. Let them dream a few years more.

Hadn't he himself come to the Tower at that age? He had been born the youngest of five boys. He and his brother Obein, the second-youngest, had been last in line to inherit what their widow mother could scrape together. So instead they had hiked to Tar Valon to bond Aes Sedai and have adventures. They were accepted for training and that had been that. Wooden practice blades in hand and the Tar Valon recruit's tabard proudly worn, they had been immortal and practically already heroes. The bards at courts all around the world were already tuning their harps to sing of the adventures of gallant Jored and his brother the mighty Obein.

Of course, they had been young, then, and hadn't known better. Jored didn't know if Obein had ever learned. He himself had learned after Obein was bonded.

A Green sister, just as they had always dreamed of. A queenly, proud Green who would lead Obein to adventure and fame… Jored had been so very jealous, but he himself – the Master at Arms had gruffed – had not yet been ready.

That Green had come back half a year later without Obein. Obein's brother Warders told sombrely of a hero's death, of saving that Green's life, but that hadn't brought Jored his brother back.

It had brought Jored an understanding of the bond's price. One day they would all have to pay it, and to hunt for glory was to pay it all that much sooner.

He had had all that in mind when he had asked his Aes Sedai to bond him. He had chosen an Aes Sedai he already knew, one he cared for, one who _mattered_ to him. One he would have died for that very same day, had it proven necessary, bond or no bond.

He had perhaps been one of the few of the younger recruits who _understood_, before he took the bond, what it actually meant. Everyone _learned_, of course. But Jored had already known.

Of course, there was more than just the harsh reality of the bond itself to learn. More to learn, before the Master at Arms would even deem a recruit ready to be bonded. To begin with, the blade; but no one without potential to learn the blade well was ever accepted for training. Then there was self-knowledge, resilience, watchfulness, humility. Most of all, perhaps, humility. Humility towards your Aes Sedai, towards your duty, towards yourself.

One of the young lads stopped before Jored. He had dark curls over his entire head and practice yard dust over his tabard, and a pair of unblinking black eyes which… altogether lacked any trace of humility. Yes, much to learn. But not _yet_. Let the lads dream for a few more years.

"What's that you're reading, Gaidin?" asked the lad.

Jored studied him. A noble's son, apparently, judging from his stance and his peremptory question. He spoke the proper title, but the word was _reflexive_, not honouring. He must be a new arrival.

"You should keep your eyes open, lad," Jored said. "Read the title yourself." A noble's son _could_ read, naturally. "Learn to see things and remember them. You should have noticed the title of the book and been able to recall it if I asked you about it in two weeks' time. A Warder may miss nothing, for what he misses may mean his Aes Sedai's life."

"Yes, Gaidin," the lad muttered, a tad sourly. He peered at the book as he spoke. His manner was much too self-possessed; the Master at Arms would have to put him straight, thought Jored.

"But why are you _reading_?"muttered the lad. "Shouldn't you be –"

"Because I enjoy it." Oh, there would be a _lot_ of putting _straight_. Jored hardened his tone. "You are a _recruit_, lad, and I am Warder. Try a tad of respect."

"Sorry, Gaidin," said the boy instantly, but without as much as an abashed blink of his eyes. "So who are you bonded to, Gaidin? If I may ask?"

Curiosity, though, was not necessarily a bad thing. Not if it was coupled with manners. Jored decided to reply. Putting the young ones straight was not _his_ task. "Jahra Sedai, of the Brown."

"A _Brown_?" the young noble exclaimed, his eyes growing wide. "Why ever would you let yourself be bonded to a _Brown_? They're – they're _boring_."

The only reason why the boy did not find himself heading head-first out through the nearest window – or perhaps even through the nearest _wall_ – was because Jored was not hot-headed. Of course, the lad would never know his good fortune.

Jored knew, however, and was very proud of how his carefully cultured, even temper reined in his anger. He calmly set his book down, raised his wine glass, took a swallow, and considered his response. No matter what he said, the boy would not understand. Not yet. Not for many years yet.

But at the neighbouring table, the twins were less in control of their tempers. Their names were Vaston and Durrak, but even in the Warder barracks they were collectively known as just _the twins_, since not a soul could tell them apart. Now, they abandoned their game of dice and shot to their feet, to loom menacingly over the youth. When the boy made to scramble away, one twin seized his arm.

"Jored," said the twin, and his voice was icy, "are you just going to _sit_ there?"

"This _whelp_," the other twin went on, "has insulted your Aes Sedai."

The lad looked angry. "I'm no _whelp_ – and I _didn't_ –"

"The whelp will be _quiet_," hissed a twin, and gave the boy's arm a jerk sharp enough to endanger the shoulder joint.

"Let him go," Jored said.

The twins stared at him in consternation, but Jored simply met the boy's gaze and said: "He did not insult my Aes Sedai. He simply vaunted his ignorance."

The lad frowned, but then – as if he suddenly understood – he had the sense to look abashed. A slow blush began to creep up his cheeks.

"Ignorance in two things," snapped the twin who held the boy's arm, which he gave a second jerk, as sharp as the first. The boy bit down on his lip to stop a whimper. "Firstly, lad. Taking the Ajahs at first glance is plain stupid. Judging a sister just by her Ajah is plain _stupid_. Somewhat like saying a trolloc has soft fur and naming it a puppy."

"Second," the second twin went on, and poked the boy in the chest with a sharp admonishing finger. "To in any way insult or even _insinuate fault_ with an Aes Sedai where her Warder might hear is asking for a snapped neck."

"Now this time we won't cut your tongue out –"

"– _this time_ –"

"– though we _are_ tempted –"

"– because it's Jored Gaidin's Aes Sedai, and Jored Gaidin's choice."

"And because Jored Gaidin is right." The two exchanged a steady look, before snapping their sharp gazes back to the lad. "But in the future, you'd best keep your tongue _civil_, if you want to keep your tongue _at all_."

"And if you want to keep your _head_, you'd best keep your _manners_."

The boy began to grow decidedly pale. Jored took another swallow of wine. Oh, he recalled this part of training very well. _Humility_. Not an easy thing to learn while all those hypothetical court bards were surely already tuning their harps and all that. Not easy to do when you're young and immortal. But it had to be learned.

The twins went on, thunderous and inexorable like a pair of boulders tumbling wild down a hillside. "And until you cure yourself of that _ignorance_ –"

"– the best way to keep a whole _skin_, is to keep wholly _silent_."

The boy grew paler by the word.

"Are we _clear_?" demanded the one twin finally.

"Y-yes, Gaidin."

"Are we _superfluously_ clear?" demanded the other.

"Y-yes, Gaidin!"

"Have we apologized –"

"– _profusely_ –"

"– to Jored Gaidin's Aes Sedai –"

"– and the entire Brown Ajah?"

"Not to mention," and here the twin raised a single finger in front of the boy's nose, "pleaded _forgiveness_?"

And so Jored endured listening to a half-coherent excuse, tidbits tossed in about ignorance and speaking in haste, and then watched the lad dart away as if he had Darkhounds at his heels, off to find the Master at Arms and report his misstep.

The twins nodded in satisfaction.

"Was that absolutely necessary?" Jored asked.

"No."

"But fun," said the twins.

"He would have learned to hold his tongue in good time."

"And now –" smirked the first twin.

"– he has learned _faster_," smirked the other.

Jored shook sighed, and set his wine down to retrieve his book. The boy would have learned in good time, but there was much to learn, and perhaps the twins were right; perhaps quicker was better.

But he would still have preferred to let the lad be young, let him have his dreams. Dreams faded when you grew older. Dreams faded when you _learned_.

* * *

_Author's Note;_

Remember "The Boy In The Library" and contrast. Jored has really grown up, hasn't he?


	15. Red: The Attention of the Highest

**The Attention of the Highest**

"Watene!"

Watene froze stiff, halfway between one step and the next. She made herself relax – a bit – and stand more normally. She made herself turn about, and drop into a neat curtsy.

Curella, the Highest, was a hawk-faced woman with her steel-grey hair in a myriad of braids about her head and a brisk step. She wore her shawl – as she usually did, even here in the Red quarters – as if it had been an armour. She didn't stop when she approached Watene, instead she snapped a "follow me" as she swept past.

Watene hurriedly heeled her. Her heart was in the pit of her throat, her stomach already in cramps, and as if to make it better her head was swooning. Swooning so bad she had to concentrate not to trip over the rim of her dress.

What could the _Highest_ want with _her_? And… the Highest was leading her swiftly towards the privacy of her quarters, and her sitting room. Nothing good ever came of being called or led in _there_.

Seldom anything good came of the Highest's notice at all. Even the Sitters stepped lightly around her, and the rest of the Red Ajah did their best not to invoke her wrath. Or her mild annoyance. Or even her _attention_.

And that bloody brother of hers had better not take note of her fallen mood and show up now. Not _now_, by the Light! He was always storming in when he wasn't wanted. Whatever was she to do with him? The way he always showed up, someone was bound to note a connection between them. Bound to.

It made her stomach flip just to think about it.

If he stuck his head into the _Highest's_ quarters to see that she wasn't _hurt_ – as if he wouldn't have _known_, had she been hurt! – she would cheerfully strangle him. After she flayed him alive.

No; after the Highest _flayed_ her alive. The Highest was known to dislike men. Beneath her reign the access of men to the Red Ajah quarters was strictly limited. No male servants were allowed, and you had to escort any male visitors in and out, and Light _help_ the sister who was caught having too many of those!

By the time Watene closed the door to the Highest's sitting room behind her, she was trembling so badly she was afraid to let go of the door handle. She might fall flat on her face.

"Sit, girl," snarled the Highest at her.

Watene scurried to an armchair and sat.

The Highest remained on her feet. She gave Watene one derisive look, then began to pace and spoke into the air as if to herself. "This morning the Sitters of this Ajah were accosted by the Sitters of the Yellow and Green."

What did that have to do with _her_? Watene wondered miserably.

_Wait_. Sitters, Yellow. that meant _Talanee._ If that woman had ratted her out…

"Our Sitters _informed_ me," Curella went on in a voice so full of dislike she might well have been shaken out of her beauty sleep and _yelled_ at, though no one in the Red Ajah would have _dared_ to do that, not even the entire trio of Sitters in force, "that you have a brother in the Tower Guard. Is that so?"

Watene's stomach did another flip, this one so violent it snared her tongue and seemed to paralyze it. She found it difficult to speak. She nodded fervently. "Y-y-yes, Highest."

"One who has been Gentled."

"Y-yes, Highest."

"And who apparently fancies himself a Warder, considering that he spends his leisure time training with the _Gaidin_ pack."

He did _what_? Watene thought in a panic. How could he give so much away like that?

"The Yellows," Curella went on before Watene had the time to do so much as gulp, "had an interest in the lad. One of them has spent no little time _Healing_ him and tending him after his Gentling. Fool woman. Everyone knows that Gentled men die. And good _riddance_!"

Watene wished she had known some way to make herself completely invisible. Or at least too small to see. Her fingers dug into the armchair's armrests and her spine was rigid, flat against the backrest. She could hardly make herself _breathe_.

Fortunately, the Highest appeared not to notice. She still paced, back and forth, speaking loudly to the entire room instead of directly to her visitor. Suddenly, though, she snapped to a halt and spun to face Watene. "The Greens, now. The Greens were _livid_ that such a _pretty_ lad… and Warder trained to boot... was wasting away. Thinner and greyer every week, they said. Someone should pick him up and bond him, they insisted. But apparently the lad has refused all offers."

"My… my brother…" began Watene, but her throat was too dry to continue.

And the Highest made a negating quirk of her head to cut her off and went on. "The Yellows claimed the lad dreamed about being _your_ Warder, but as you chose the Red, he chose the Tower Guard. Is that so?"

"Yes, Highest."

"And after his Gentling, as I understand it, he's been trying to cling to whatever scraps of relationship he might have with you. Which reminds me that I've _seen_ this guardsman officer in our quarters." She sounded as if she'd found a dead cockroach in her soup.

Somehow, then, Watene began to grow angry. Her little brother was no cockroach. He was her little _brother_. And not once had he entered the Red quarters without the demanded escort. Not once! Not even when he'd waited at the entrance to said quarters, practically jumping up and down with impatience. She drew a hissing breath and felt her back grow somehow even straighter, her grip on the armrests firm instead of cramp-ish. "He has been here to visit me regularly over the past two years, yes. But he follows the rules. He is never here unescorted."

"Be glad I was told he was your _brother_ early on, girl, or I might have taken note," snapped the Highest. "As it is, I've tolerated it. But I _will not tolerate_ our Sitters being _molested_ on the matter. Here is what you shall do. Either you shall take proper care of the boy, enough to convince the Yellow bitches he's under no risk whatsoever of _dying_ on them, or you shall tell him to let one of the bloody _Greens_ bond him."

Watene blinked in surprise. Then the rage rose again. "I'm not letting any Green get her fingers on him," she said heatedly, surprising herself. "They'd treat him as nothing better than a lap dog!"

Curella's eyes landed on her like red-hot spears boring into her head. But Watene sat still to face them. Let a _Green_ have _Dahlan_? Not as long as the Light bloody shone!

"I see," crisped the Highest. "Then you had better begin to take good care of him. I will not have to hear of this matter again. _Do I make myself clear_?"

"Yes, Highest," Watene said, and jerked her head in what had to do for a nod.

"In the morning you leave for Murandy," Curella went on, beginning to pace again. "Rinette will inform you on the details. You will require an escort from the Tower Guard. I _strongly_ suggest that you set in a request for your brother. If a trip doesn't cheer him, at least he'll be out of the Yellows' and Greens' sight for a while. Bloody _women_."

"Yes, Highest," Watene replied.

"Now get out. I have work to do."

Watene rose, with much more dignity than she had sat down, and overcame her boiling anger in order to dip into another curtsy. Then she turned and made for the door.

Only as she came out into the corridors did it begin to dawn on her.

The Highest – the _Highest_! – had just told her – _ordered_ her! – to spend more time with her little brother. The _Highest_ had told her to bring him with her on her next trip, and likely every trip she ever made, and she did a lot of travelling.

All this made her the first woman to ever have left Curella's quarters with a smile on her face, causing every Red sister she met to look at her curiously.

But Watene really couldn't help it. Her little brother so often made her want to tear her hair – or maybe _his_ hair – in frustration, but somehow, the thought that she might bring him along to Murandy, without fear that someone might grow suspicious, made her _giddily_ happy.

So in another moment she became the first woman to do a little dance on her way from Curella's quarters. The other Reds positively _stared_ at that, but she didn't care. She didn't care in the slightest.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

Four days to my exam, and instead of spending the morning in proper study, _this_ is what comes of it. I'm afraid that I am a bad, undisciplined student. But I'm pretty decent at writing, if I may say so myself. If only I had better control over it...


	16. Blue: If You Love Something

**If You Love Something…**

Evain Tarbonel, Aes Sedai of the Blue Ajah, watched the sleeping man beside her and tried to sort out her emotions. She felt like a cat trying to unravel a ball of yarn – from the inside. Wherever she twisted there was another tangle. Wherever she set her claws they were caught, and whatever limb she tried to move it was impeded by a netting of strands.

He slept, but _she_ had not slept. She had carefully freed herself from his arms after he began to snore; it had been much too warm and constrictive to sleep in his embrace. She was used to sleeping alone. But she had found that the warmth had not been all that kept her awake.

She loved him. Incomprehensible as it seemed, she had unwound enough of her emotional tangle to understand _that_. She found a pleased smile as she watched him sleep… but the thought of the previous evening set her cheeks aflame. She… Light. She hadn't taken a lover since just after she was raised to the shawl, and she'd been nothing but a foolish _girl_ then. What had she known of love then?

Light, but what did she know of it _now_?

If he, Bukarin, and his unexpected effect on her heart – a heart she had thought better _disciplined_ – had been all on her mind, perhaps rest would have come easy.

But while Bukarin seemed to have nestled himself somehow into her heart, there was another man; one who had lodged in the back of her mind for near thirty years. Her Warder, Contair. For the time the bond remained masked, but she suspected that he was in pain.

Contair had always loved her more than was proper for a Warder. It had never been a problem; he accepted his place. But this… could he accept _this_? Could she ask that of him?

So the truth was that she lay there, awake, because she felt guilty.

She had come north when she learned of her little sister Amaille's death. Amaille had reached the remarkable age of 104 years, and she had been in correspondence with Evain since Evain had left for the Tower. Evain had visited her once a year since earning the shawl. But now… now Amaille was no more. She left children, grandchildren, great grandchildren, but none of those felt like Evain's family. For all the respect her niece and nephews, her great-nieces and great-nephews, all showed her, they were not family. Her only remaining family now was her own great-aunt, Lomiel… and of course, Contair.

During their trip north, Contair had felt her pain and kept close, and she had been grateful. In stark contrast, the last week… he had avoided her. He had avoided her since her invitation to visit lord Bukarin's keep.

Her relationship with Bukarin had startled her. He had been another visitor, come to pay his respects to Amaille's family. His 60 years of life had left him greyed but still handsome… and with a daughter newly raised into the Green Ajah, he was not afraid of Aes Sedai.

She had known him now little short of three weeks, but already after their first meeting she had had to keep back a foolish little grin when she thought of him. Courteous, but subtly flirtatious. When had anyone last dared flirt with her? With an _Aes Sedai_?

When he smiled at her, her heart would flutter in response. She was Aes Sedai, but with him, she was as weak-kneed as any love-sick ninny. He made her blush, he made her laugh. Light, he made her _laugh_. When had she last laughed?

The man was a widower with three grown children, but what of it? Evain herself was years past her 110th birthday. He made her feel young again. _No_; he made her feel a woman, not just an icon wearing a shawl and a ring.

She had forgotten what it felt like to be swept off her feet. She had thought herself outgrown it, hadn't thought it possible. A girl's fancy. Something she had experienced as a young woman and giggled about as a Novice, but not something that could happen to Evain the Aes Sedai. Thus she had been completely unprepared for it.

A week she had now spent in his home, and a wonderful week it had been. She had noticed how Contair kept away, but… but only now did she actually pause to _think_ on it. Only now, when that certain line had been crossed, did she consider what her girlish whim might be doing to her Warder.

That she hadn't been alarmed at his absence only told her how badly she had been distracted. Usually she _disliked_ to be separated from her Warder. It felt like leaving an arm behind.

Careful not to wake the sleeping man, she moved to the edge of the bed and set her feet down. Over the back of a nearby stool hung a silk robe – it must have belonged to his late wife, and one of the serving women must have taken it out. Serving women always seemed to understand and anticipate these things much better than they had any right to.

In any case, Evain was grateful for the garment. She had not looked forward to buttoning up her dress in the dark, and without any help.

She held it closed around her and toed barefoot out of the lord Bukarin's chambers. She tried to make herself walk confidently, like the Aes Sedai she was, but somehow that wasn't possible. She was nothing but a young woman sneaking barefoot from her lover's chambers in the early hours of the morning. If she had met someone, she was likely to blush until even her ears grew red.

Fortunately she reached her own suite – a very intricately decorated visitor's suite – without meeting anyone, and drew a sigh of relief when she could close the door behind her.

She had left Contair in the suite's garden, yesterday afternoon, before joining Bukarin for dinner. If she knew his habits – and after thirty years, she should! – he would have stayed in the suite. But she saw no sign of him.

Not until she checked the garden. Already from the doorway she saw him – and there she hesitated. She drew the silk robe closer about herself and tied the waistband. The fabric was barely thick enough for her to feel decent, and suddenly she wished that she had opted for the dress instead.

Before her, her Warder swept through the swordforms. He was past fifty years now, but the Warder's grace would have named him younger, and every sweep of his blade named him dangerous. To watch him raised goosebumps along her arms.

Burn him, but he must have stayed in that garden the entire night! She was almost angry. One of them, at least, should have gotten some _sleep_. But _no_, he had stayed here, flowing from Swallow Takes Flight to Raising The Gale; from The Dodging Rabbit to the elaborate, deceptively slow Wind Crosses A Meadow; from Opening To The Light to Holding Back The Tide, which he lay enough force in that if he had been facing an actual foe, Evain would have taken pity on the poor soul.

As she watched him, she tried to make head and tail of a most curious sensation: she was reluctant to approach him. His years of focus and discipline held him together as he danced, but what would happen if she broke that focus?

She was reluctant to unmask the bond, too. When he hurt, _she_ would hurt.

She fidgeted with the free ends of her waistband. Burn her, but she was being silly. Contair was her _Warder_. Why under the Light should she be apprehensive about approaching her own Warder? A _Gaidin_ followed, served, and obeyed, and asked no questions, made no demands. She practically _owned_ him, as much as she owned her bloody horse.

If only it had been that simple.

Her Warder, her friend, her companion. Near thirty years ago he had sworn to serve her as long as breath came and blood flowed. Countless times had he proven true. Countless times had his sword saved her.

But he had loved her from the day they met. A love she could feel every time he looked at her, but had never returned. Not like _that_.

His heart was now broken, and she had broken it. But he would forgive her, and that made her feel sick. Sick, and disgusted at herself for having hurt him.

Cowardice, however, never did befit an Aes Sedai. Morning was not far; already first light began to peek over the horizon. Bukarin's servants would have breakfast ready for the two of them, and she wanted to return to him before he woke. But before then… she needed to speak with her Warder.

She could not hide from him forever. Evain stepped forth, out of the doorway and into the little garden. "You've been avoiding me," she said clearly.

He spun in Spring Butterflies Dancing, and his last sweeping motion neatly sheathed his sword and set him on one knee facing her, head bowed. He quickly – not too quickly – climbed to his feet and met her eyes. His breath came hard and fast, his linen shirt clung to him where sweat soaked it. Oh, yes. He had clearly danced the forms for _hours_. Likely since their parting the day before. But he did not look tired, and his gaze was steady. Bright burning, piercing black, but steady.

She unmasked the bond, and he cocked his head as if to tune in as her emotions became clear to him again.

His bond named him... in agony. Frustrated. And bone weary, though that sensation he had shoved aside, as was his habit. The ache in his joints, the numbness in his muscles, told her that her suspicion had been correct; he had remained here all night, practicing his bloody sword forms. Just like he had spent the better part of that entire week practicing as an excuse not to follow her every step.

That he had kept himself purposefully away… any other time, it would have baffled her.

This time, she understood. And Light, it made her feel sick.

"It seemed appropriate," he said after a moment. "I had no wish to... intrude."

He lied. At least part of him had dearly wished to intrude. Evain drew a deep breath. "You're my Warder, Contair. Never fear that you might intrude."

"I live only to serve, Aes Sedai," he said softly, and bowed his head to her again. "But I know when I am not wanted." Then, so low she wasn't certain she was meant to hear it: "If you love a thing, let it go."

His self-control was absolute, but in Evain's head his bond _bled_ pain. A blade in his gut, now being twisted as he was made to look upon her again. Still, he looked. Calmly, he stood there and let the blade twist, all while his agony was near enough to put tears in _Evain's_ eyes.

She couldn't meet his calm. She couldn't face that internal sorrow, not knowing that she had caused it. He loved _her_, but he had always accepted his place as just her Warder. She had never thought his uncustomary devotion to her might… hurt him.

She had never thought to meet anyone who could affect her as Bukarin had.

"Would you release me from my bond, Evain Sedai?"

The words landed like a slap across her face. Feeling suddenly faint, Evain glanced hastily around. Wasn't there a bench somewhere nearby? There it was. Gratefully she staggered to it and sat down.

Release him. _He wanted her to release him_? She closed her eyes, and knotted her fingers into the silk of her robe. _If you love a thing, let it go. _She sat with her back straight, but had to steel herself against collapsing. Whatever would she do without her Warder?

Burn that fluttering heart of hers! No love affair, no matter how much feet-sweeping was involved, could equal thirty years of a bonded Warder's devotion. Morally, it _couldn't_. A week of fancy wasn't worth losing Contair. Rationally, it _wasn't_.

Burn her, she was _Aes Sedai_, not some whimsical girl.

"Evain?"

"If you require it of me," Evain answered him, when she had finally gathered her courage and could look at him again. How could he look so calm? It was as if he had applied the cool composure of battle to their conversation. She considered using a novice exercise to calm herself – and decided against it. He could feel her emotions. There was no need to hide them. Not from Contair. "If you _wish_ it. If I have caused you such agony. If you feel that I have… betrayed you." Her voice almost failed her. She had to draw a deep breath before she could continue. "Contair, I'm _sorry_." She looked helplessly up at him. "I just –"

"A woman can't help whom she loves," Contair said, still speaking very softly. "Or whom she _doesn't_ love. Don't be sorry, Evain. I'm glad you found happiness."

He was so very good of heart, was her Contair. His pain came sharp like the tang of blood in her mouth, but at the same time the bond glowed like the sun because he _loved_ her, and when he said he was glad to see her happy, he meant it. No matter what that might mean for him.

He made for a most excellent Warder. Whatever would she do without him?

"And thus I ask you to release me," Contair went on in that remarkably even voice. His calm of battle, unfailing, unflinching, no matter what blows he dealt or… what blows he _was_ dealt. "So that you may bond the man who makes you happy."

_Bond Bukarin?_ Evain had lain awake for hours that night. She had watched Bukarin sleep, and she had already considered this. She had considered it until it had given her a headache. "He's a Borderland lord, Contair. I know his creed. He has land and duty here, and he'll dig in until the trollocs dig him out, if they ever can. He won't leave for any woman." She shook her head. "Besides, it wouldn't be fair to take him from his family."

Contair's nod said nothing at all.

Evain spread the silk robe more securely over her knees, and spoke on without raising her eyes. She couldn't meet his eyes. "And I know it's terribly selfish of me…" Her voice fell to a murmur. "But… I don't want to let you go. I'd much rather keep you."

She knew how he would respond to that even as she said it. Perhaps it was selfish of her to _say_ it. But, by the Oaths, every word of it _was_ true. And he should know.

Contair reached her with a few steps, steps completely bereft of Warder grace, and fell to his knees. He folded his arms about her legs and rested his face on her lap. There he sat, his breath now slowing, but his muscles knotted to the point of trembling – to the point of pain.

Evain stroked his hair. He had such wondrously soft hair. Like strands of mahogany silk. Age had turned it a steely grey along the sides of his head, but the mass of it remained dark brown. She bent to touch her lips to the top of his head.

No; she had never loved Contair in _that_ way. She had never wondered what it might be like to kiss him, or to fall asleep in his arms. She had never felt that electric tingle when they touched. But he had been her Warder for thirty years. She no longer felt complete without him. She never felt quite safe if he wasn't there to watch her back. She loved him like a favourite brother, and she hated to see him in pain.

If you love something, let it go. Burn her. All she had to choose was _which_ to let go.

But it wasn't a difficult choice. Not really.

She was no _girl_. It was time for fancies to end.

"We will be going home today," she decided.

He raised his head. "Home? What of the lord –"

"Nothing of him."

He frowned at her. "Evain, grant me one favour; don't talk _around_ it. I know what you feel for him. I understand if –"

Evain sighed. "I know you do. But, Contair, I meant what I said. _Nothing of Bukarin_. I am still Mistress of Novices, and I have duties to attend in the Tower. My sister's death was enough to pull me away…" _Light protect Amaille and see her safely reborn_. "…but lord Bukarin isn't…" Her breath hitched. _Aes Sedai, not a love-sick ninny_, she reminded herself firmly_._ "He _isn't_ enough to _keep_ me away."

She _could_ say it, so it must be true. Still, she sighed with relief. She could say it, so it must be so. And he _wasn't_, burn her! She was Aes Sedai. Perhaps she could still be swept off her feet… but she _had to _be more adept at putting them back firm beneath her than she had been as a girl. Lord Bukarin was a fling, a temporary foolery, but no more. He _could be _no more. She had duties. Mountains and mountains of duties.

"This makes you sad."

"I'm sad because I…" she sighed again. "I'm sad because… for the last couple of days, I've been simply _Evain_. But I must go back to being Evain the Aes Sedai. The longer I wait, the more difficult it will be."She suppressed the voice in the back of her head that cried for another day, another week. "We must leave _today_."

Contair studied her with his black eyes, as if he could see her thoughts written on her face. On his knees, he still made her feel small. Oh, they would stand eye to eye when they rose, true enough, but while she was slender he was solidly muscled, and looked broader than he was due to the contrast of his narrow goatee.

Evain cupped her hands over his cheeks. "If you wish to be released, I will release you. I… I love Bukarin. A foolish thing, but there it is. But the truth is… as he won't go with me to the Tower, I have no use for him. In my work, I don't _need_ him. But _you_, my very dear _Gaidin_, I can use. You, I _need_."

His stare grew dazed as if he had trouble taking in her words. She wasn't sure he had actually heard anything more than the first two sentences. His bond flickered with different shades of pain like a candle flickered with light. Slowly it grew numb, then hardened and –

"You still wish to be released," Evain concluded, feeling numb herself. "Very well, Contair –"

He cut her off with a sharp negating jerk of his head. He took a breath to steady himself, and looked up at her. "As I recall, I once swore to serve you," he said. Again his voice was soft, but this time not from his cool of battle. This was the serenity of certainty. "Until death. How was it now…? Yes. 'As long as Light banishes Shadow, I am yours. As long as breath comes and blood flows, I am yours. Under the Light, I shall serve none but you. Under the Light, I am your Warder.' Those were the words I used." Suddenly he smiled; a true smile. "Light still banishes Shadow, breath still comes and last I checked, my blood still flows. So as long as you want me, Evain Sedai… as long as that, Light help me, I am yours."

Relief had shot through Evain like a spring flood breaking a dam at his words. He would stay with her! It was enough to make her smile. Smile broadly. She had to suppress an urge to _hug_ him. It would not have been dignified – especially not with him so sweaty. Instead, she pulled a hand free and laid it atop his head. It took a moment before she could speak again. His bond glowed warm in her mind now; she was certain hers blazed in his.

Oh, he _knew_ how happy this had made her. He _knew_, and there was no need to tell him. A Warder bond was a wonderful thing.

"Go clean yourself up," she instructed. "Have the servants prepare our things, and our horses. We ride out at noon." _Before I change my foolish ninny-of-a-lovesick-girl mind_. "I will… go and bid the lord Bukarin farewell."

She rose, and he swept to his feet before her. She touched his cheek. "I'll mask the bond again," she told him. "Don't concern yourself."

He bowed, though his bond gave a twitch of displeasure. "Honour to serve, Aes Sedai. It will be as you say."

Evain considered bringing him with her. With him at her shoulder, perhaps she would find it in her to face lord Bukarin as an Aes Sedai, and make her farewells easier. She had noted that the lord had found Contair's presence… unsettling. No wonder, considering the glares Contair's black eyes were capable of.

Or perhaps… perhaps she should simply have Contair gather their things and leave at once.

Both of which would have been a coward's way out. _No_. She would go back to lord Bukarin's bed and be there when he woke, and she would tell him what she meant to do. He was no stranger to duty; he would understand.

And if he loved her at all, he would let her go.

Just as Contair would have.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

I posted "The Attention of the Highest" and hoped for some reviews to cheer me before exam-time. Thank you Maggie K., AlyxtheDarkWanderer, and Asmodean! At first only two reviews showed up, and I kept thinking... one more review, just one more, then I'll post the next chapter. I've been bouncing on my seat, since this one was already finished...

And yes, Maggie K., I did think of 101 Dalmatians' "Cruella" when I named the Highest "Curella". A devil-woman heads the Reds.

Oh, and updates to "Aes Sedai" will be forthcoming, likely during the holidays.. - unless I'm too busy enjoying my holidays. It's the Brown chapter that's giving me trouble. It's basically finished, but it needs a lot of revising, subtle plot changes and heavy foreshadowing, and I haven't had either the time or the will.


	17. White: Five Warders and a Black

**Five Warders and a Black**

As always, Haqon entered the inn first, tapping the door handle the necessary three times before he could grip it and open the door. _The Poached Hare _was the sort of place that never would have expected Aes Sedai guests, and the innkeeper had stammered from nervosity when he realised what Lomiel was. Apparently he knew to recognize the ageless look. A shame, that. But they visited under false names and though the innkeeper wasn't a prosperous man, he was honest. Too honest to suspect that they might lie about their names or why they wanted to keep hidden. Perhaps that was why he was not very prosperous; he had set up his establishment in a part of town where dishonesty would serve a man well.

Lomiel glided in after him. For once, her gown was grey instead of white; a misty grey, and the dress was plainly cut. She wore a cloak in the same colour, thick wool and the hood up. Snow had gathered over her shoulders and head. She ignored the cold but her cheeks were rosy, giving more colour to her face than it usually displayed.

Haqon, having scanned the common room and found it empty, prepared to reach back and brush the worst of the snow off her, but then… then he paused.

The common room was empty.

Common rooms were rarely empty.

Lomiel lifted her hood down. She was tired; the battle with Ylwenia and her Warder had taken a lot out of her. As Aes Sedai came, Lomiel was among the weakest, and although the use of an _angreal_ bracelet she often wore beneath the sleeve of her dress made her stronger, it still left her in the lower range. Using too much of _saidar_ left her as weary as a man who'd run for a week. That was about what she felt now. Pure habit kept her back straight and her chin up, but her eyes were dull and the sooner he could see her into bed and let her sleep, the better.

In the end Ylwenia had proven too strong for Lomiel, and Haqon had had to help her. Some of that tiredness was because she had Healed him afterwards. Ylwenia's Warder hadn't taken the death of his Aes Sedai very well.

But there was no one to Heal Lomiel. She lived with her bruises. Thank the Light it was only _bruises_.

"What is it?" Lomiel asked him softly, pulling her gloves off her hands and tucking them, elegantly folded, inside her belt.

"It's too quiet," Haqon murmured. His instincts were in a sudden riot. He wanted to reach for his sword, and he knew that now, he wouldn't have to tap it three times but could grip it firmly at once, as always when he felt on edge. "I'll take a look."

"Stay near," she instructed.

He offered her a curt nod, and began a sweep around the common room. There wasn't much to inspect. There was one small, private dining hall off to one side, the stairs to the upper floor to the other side, and the bar, behind it the swingdoors heading into a narrow corridor which led to the kitchen.

The common room itself was empty. The dining hall was in darkness, but appeared empty. Behind the bar he found nothing. No sound came from the kitchens, and to search them would leave Lomiel alone in this eerily empty common room. The stairs up to the upper floor… there should be guests upstairs, asleep.

There should also have been people in the common room, drinking and exchanging tales. He glanced once up the steps, then turned back towards Lomiel. If she was confident, he would search the kitchens, and upstairs.

But she read his expression and his bond, and she must have agreed with what she found. "We leave," she said softly. "The back exit, through the kitchens."

"The back exit could be watched. There's a window in the private dining hall. It heads to the side alley. Perhaps that won't be watched." And if it was, he could break in through the window of the shop on the other side of the alley and leave through its back exit. The shop belonged to a tailor, more prosperous, more greedy, and less honest than the innkeeper. A few gold coins tossed in his face and he would conveniently forget his window had ever been broken. Of course, he'd also tell exactly where they'd gone as soon as someone else tossed gold at him, but by then Haqon could have Lomiel well away. There was a horse merchant two blocks west and a clear route out of town through a gate just beyond that.

While his thoughts had raced, Lomiel was already gliding across the floor. He strode towards the dining hall.

Two steps he came then he spun about and parried. He'd felt the wind of the blow; his instincts had kicked in. The man who had attacked him was surprised at his reflexes, and before he could gather his wits Haqon kicked him, hard, in the midriff. He _oofed_ and flew back, hitting the floor, rolling, coming up with his blade still in his hands, though he stood folded near double. Haqon didn't pursue him, he was already running towards Lomiel and the dining hall, ready to kick open the door and shove her through it and –

"Don't kill him yet, Pracun," admonished a woman's voice.

Haqon couldn't decide where she'd come from. Had she come from the kitchens? Had she somehow hid up the stairs, and managed to sneak all the way down without a single wooden creak – no, impossible!

Impossible things happened only with Aes Sedai.

Cracking glass told him the window in the dining hall had just been broken, and a dark shape leapt inside. Haqon, torn between watching Lomiel's back as she left the common room and dashing ahead to cut down whoever blocked their path, glanced back into the common room.

There was Zumashi, a Green. An associate of Ylwenia. But Zumashi had left the city earlier that day, only after which Lomiel had chosen to strike. Because Zumashi had five Warders, and was too dangerous. Even Ylwenia alone had been risky. The two of them together would have been a catastrophy.

Five bloody Warders. One Warder had come from the kitchens, and had tried to cut him down; Pracun, a dark Tairen with a shaved head. One came through the window in the dining hall; Sarreogan, it must be, judging from his short stature. As he came into the light his Arafellin braids and cold eyes confirmed that guess. Trentor walked quiet and tall at Zumashi's side, while nervous-eyed Ardovin and Fick, whose foppish garments disagreed with how he moved and acted like a roadside robber, made their way in through the main entrance. They must have been tailing Lomiel and him.

Haqon cursed himself for a fool – but Lomiel laid a hand lightly on his arm to steady him, and took a step forwards.

"Zumashi," she greeted the other Aes Sedai with a small curtsy. "I wasn't expecting to meet another sister here. Might I ask –"

"Hush," Zumashi snapped, her arms folded beneath her breasts. "Lomma, is it? Of the White?"

"Lomiel, sister," corrected Lomiel mildly. "But yes, I am of the White."

All the while she spoke, respectful and compliant, her bond gained an edge of steel which told Haqon one thing; somehow, Zumashi had to die.

That was already apparent to him. Zumashi was here, and Zumashi was of the Black Ajah, and she had not come to pay a social call. This was too well set up, and it stank of discovery. She must have returned for some reason and found what had happened to Ylwenia.

So she would die.

She would, or Lomiel would, and Haqon would not let that happen. Five bloody Warders or not, Haqon _would not let that happen_.

As Lomiel continued ahead, towards Zumashi as if to join her for a conversation, Haqon trailed her. He didn't like it; she was leading them right into the centre of the room, and Zumashi's Warders were following, tightening the noose around them. But he trusted Lomiel absolutely. Trusted her more than he trusted himself.

And again Lomiel proved worthy of that trust. Her fingers discreetly indicated the floor, and Haqon understood. There was a cellar beneath, and the exit led out the back. All five of Zumashi's Warders were in the common room with them; if she cracked the boards beneath them with the Power, they would fall right into another escape route. He prepared himself to fall, land safely, and to make sure Lomiel wasn't hurt when the planks gave way. They would have to be quick.

But nothing happened. Instead, in Haqon's head, Lomiel suddenly felt… stiff. Contained. A touch afraid, even. She controlled her fear and her serenity remained flawless, but the bond never lied.

She was being held by the Power. Likely, she was being shielded as well. Never a good thing. Haqon felt a trill of fear himself, but then mastered it. If Lomiel was contained, everything was up to him. Carefully he sidled forward. Five Warders, had Zumashi. But he had seen them all train. Only one of them could hope to match him.

"Tell your Warder to stay where he is," instructed Zumashi coolly.

Haqon froze, removed his hand from the hilt of his blade, and bowed his head to her without awaiting Lomiel's instruction. There was nothing else for it. But the throwing knives in his sleeves were no more than a blink of an eye from flying through the air. A shame he had used a couple on Ylwenia and her Warder. He hadn't enough left to take out six.

"Oh, Lomiel, what a fool you are," Zumashi went on. She was known in the Tower for her temper, Haqon knew – even her own Warders flinched from it – but now she must have had it on tight reins. Which would have been unusual. "I know what happened to Ylwenia. My Trentor told me."

Trentor was one of her Warders; an alert man with a temper almost as bad as Zumashi's own. Haqon wondered what the man could possibly have seen, and what Zumashi was guessing. He was certain no one had been about to catch the deed itself, and the bodies showed no signs of anything but a street robbery. Oh, it was a bit suspicious for an Aes Sedai and her Warder to fall to footpads, but it was not impossible. Not when the weapon of choice was throwing knives. A well-aimed knife killed an Aes Sedai as quickly as it did anyone else, once it finally struck her. And without her, the Warder was just a man. A dangerous man, but still just a man.

But while thoughts must have raced through Lomiel's head as well, her expression didn't shift. "Ylwenia? Do you mean Ylwenia Algothare, of the Blue? What has happened to her?"

"_You_," Zumashi smiled. She almost looked more amused than angry. "You killed her."

"_Killed_? I?"

"Now what's left to figure out is _why_."

"C-come now, Zumashi," Lomiel said in her timid voice. She wrung her hands. _Only_ her hands, making it apparent that some invisible bond held her arms in place. "Surely you can't mean to say that _I_ – why, Ylwenia must have had thrice my strength –!"

Zumashi's face twisted with distaste. Aes Sedai never liked to speak of strength. Odd, since they let strength rule their very existence. "There are two options," she said then. "Either you're one of us, and –" she made a hand-gesture, but when Lomiel didn't respond to it, she shrugged "– or not. And in that case, I want to know why and by whose orders."

"W-_why_?" Lomiel had added a touch of desperation to her voice, and her eyes began to grow wide. Her bond remained unchanged. She, too, had mastered her fear and settled into calculating serenity. "Zumashi, please, however could I –"

Zumashi snapped her fingers, and she must have added the Power to it, for the sound reverberated like thunder. Lomiel quieted. "You will _cease_ to waste my time," Zumashi intoned, in a voice that thundered as much as that snap of her fingers. "Tell me, or die. Tell me, or I will simply question your remnant Warder."

Lomiel said nothing. She only darted a glance at Haqon which he couldn't read. Her bond named her… considering. Her silence was designed to buy time. Time that Haqon suspected that she would not get. He himself was on his toes, ready to throw.

Zumashi was not being fooled by Lomiel's theatrics. Zumashi was dangerous, and at the moment in control. That control needed to be wrested from her before she drew advantage of it. Zumashi's five Warders were spread around him and Lomiel, all ready with their hands on their swords. A throwing knife in-between Zumashi's eyes would have done the trick neatly, except one of those Warders – Trentor – stood right in Haqon's way. Haqon needed to move before he could throw. And he dared not move, dared not draw attention to himself, before he knew his move would be effective. He needed to be _fast_, faster than ever before. He needed to give no one time to react.

"I'm… I'm sorry, Zumashi," Lomiel whispered, blinking as if to stop tears. "I'm sorry if you think… if Ylwenia _is_ dead, I'm sorry if you think I had anything to do with it. You must believe me. I'm Aes Sedai, Zumashi, just like you. I can't lie. I tell you, I've never in my life – killed someone – someone bound by the Oaths. I've – I've killed people, yes. Some Whitecloaks. Others who threatened me. But never a sister bound to the Tower. I –"

"You _lie_," Zumashi hissed. "Trentor saw you. Saw you! And now here you are, you ignore our hand signal, but then you lie in my very face, and reveal yourself. So you _are_ a rival, are you? Fool. Fool! However did you think someone as weak as you could rise among us?" She suddenly laughed, a full-throated shriek of a laugh that made Haqon's ears hurt. Her voice went on in the same half-mad shriek. "Here's for Ylwenia, you little _bitch_!"

Lomiel made no sound as the flows that held her suddenly tossed her, like a child does a toy, through the air. She crashed to the floor and rolled, tangled into her cloak and dress and ended in a bundle when she hit the wall.

Then, she did not move.

Haqon howled and attacked mindlessly. His charge brought him face to face with Trentor, but he barely slowed. Their blades crossed only once before Haqon had feinted and slashed his opponent's side open. The man folded double over Haqon's sweeping blade, and Haqon twirled wildly around to yank the weapon free.

Zumashi screeched and threw a fireball.

Haqon dropped to the floor, and set his shoulder, so that the advancing Ardovin tumbled over him instead of running him through – a helpful shove and Ardovin flew up _over_ Haqon, to be neatly hit by the fireball.

Haqon was already in motion again, and dodged a skilful attack from Fick –

"Away!" snapped Zumashi.

The Warders withdrew – and Haqon dove beneath a rickety table. He kicked its legs and it fell neatly onto its side, shielding him from whatever Zumashi threw – the next second he leapt up and over it, right at Zumashi, one knife flying true for her face and his sword up to strike.

Zumashi cried out and the world seemed to shake – she had done something, something with the Power, but Haqon had no idea what. Whatever it was, it left Zumashi like a wave, beat the thrown knife out of the air, and slammed Haqon to the roof, then let him fall to the floor. Only good fortune kept him from having his neck broken.

His daze lasted only a moment – but with a channeller, a moment was too long.

A thin wisp of Air closed about his throat and snatched him up, until his toes barely touched the floor. Before he could raise them, his hands were caught and locked tight against his chest. He could barely breathe.

But she had not killed him directly. There was hope. He stared balefully at her.

"You're good, I'll give you that," admitted Zumashi. "And a bloody waste on a White." Careful, like one would a feral wolf, she approached him. "You wouldn't be interested in being bonded a second time?" She laughed – a ragged sound, like screeching nail. Usually her laughter chimed like silver bells. "As if I'll give you a choice." She reached out a long-fingered hand, the greed apparent in her eyes.

She had forgotten his feet. Sloppy of her. Haqon kicked high and hit her chin squarely.

She folded like a dropped rag doll, her weaves unravelled, and Haqon was free.

He felt motion behind him, and spun to throw a knife between Pracun's furious eyes. He dove for his sword and caught it just as Fick bore down on him. Haqon rolled to his feet, with a dignified Swan Awakening to meet Fick's determined Thunder Rolling Across the Plains.

Fick was an excellent swordsman, and it had been long since Haqon had been truly challenged. He might have enjoyed it – if only Sarreogan had not been there to stab his back, and if only Zumashi had been good and dead.

He danced in Snow Circles the Field, darted forth in Cat Makes Its Choice, and retreated quick from Buck's Fury.

A last moment Bow of the Fox saved him from Sarreogan's blade when he, too, joined the battle.

Haqon needed to put the two off balance, and quick. The best way would have been to finish off Zumashi – but Sarreogan, though no blademaster, was no fool. He had placed himself where he could easily drive Haqon away from the unconscious Aes Sedai.

Haqon's To Fight Fire challenged Fick's Wind Through the Trees, and kept the two opponents from positioning on either side of him. When Fick gave a step, Haqon took the chance and charged Sarreogan with a Bear Roaring which robbed the man of his balance and knocked his head good and hard against the floor. As Haqon spun back to Fick, he tossed a knife at Sarreogan which he hoped would hit something vital. A favourite move of his, Little Girl's Spindle; very useful for throwing and turning at once.

Fick executed a flawless Resolve of the River, and Haqon made a show of retreating from it, while placing himself so that he faced Zumashi. Fick was between them, but this time that did not matter. He could throw past the man –

Which was when he remembered that he had used his last knife on Sarreogan.

He swore silently, while Seventh Night Rises bested Horse Climbs A Hill, only to be broken by a vicious Cry Of The Hawk, and… and he began to understand Fick's tactics.

Haqon had once been told that what truly had earned him his heronmark was not his perfection – and he was _meticulous_ – but his ability to read his opponent. That also made him a good teacher, the Tower's Master at Arms insisted, and he had been bullied into holding lessons for the recruits. Which had trained his already keen eye to be keener.

Haqon knew his own patterns, too – and now, he broke them. He interrupted a Dancing Heron with Fall Of The Eagle, a risky move, but it made Fick jerk back as if he had been burned, and that gave Haqon the moment he needed.

He rolled back, snatched the knife which jutted out between Pracun's now empty eyes, and came up ready to throw.

Fick froze. "Please don't," he pleaded raggedly. He was five paces away now – too far away to stop Haqon's throw in time. Which he knew. "Light, man. _Don't_."

Haqon darted a meaningful look at Lomiel, who still lay where she had fallen.

Fick understood – there would be no mercy. He roared and attacked. But this time, it was a wild charge, bereft of all skill and finesse.

Haqon threw. A still target was easy, even while dodging Fick's wild attack, and the knife thudded neatly into flesh right over Zumashi's heart. Then he twirled and kicked Fick's legs out from under him.

Fick thudded down on elbows and knees, head bent, and stayed there. With his Aes Sedai gone, he would fight no longer. An unusual reaction. A bloody shame.

Haqon sighed as he lifted the other Warder's head and slit his throat. He did not like doing it. It felt… dishonest. All the Warders he had killed, or helped Lomiel kill; all the Aes Sedai… all without blinking, most without remorse. Still, slitting the throat of a man who had surrendered did not suit him.

"But likely you didn't _want_ to live," he reasoned as he dropped Fick's head, still trying to reason out Fick's apathy. Had he known his Aes Sedai be Black, and thus..?

Impossible to tell. Irrelevant.

He prodded the bond in his head – yes, Lomiel was still unconscious, but still alive, and that had to do for the moment. He made certain Zumashi was properly dead, then rounded the room, retrieved his knives, checked each of the downed Warders. He was uncertain about Sarreogan. The throwing knife sat buried high on the man's thigh, and he bled too quickly to much longer count among the living, but since he still had a weak pulse… Haqon opened another artery to speed up the process.

But Ardovin was nowhere in sight.

Haqon swore. Ardovin he had tossed over his back, and he had been certain that Zumashi's fireball had hit the man. _Certain_! It must have – otherwise he would have had Ardovin along with Sarreogan and Fick to battle.

Perhaps the shock of Zumashi's death had woken him.

And he had decided to _leave_ instead of try for revenge?

Haqon found that hard to believe, but he was well aware that a few Warders _did_ retain the ability to think straight when their Aes Sedai perished. A very few. Fick's reaction had been a first, but Ardovin worried Haqon more. Thinking Warders never boded well.

He folded to his knees by Lomiel's side and pulled her out of the cocoon her clothes had formed around her.

"Lomiel," he urged, and patted her cheek. "Wake up."

He needed to hunt down Ardovin before the man did something Haqon would regret – but burn him if he would leave his Aes Sedai unconscious and unguarded. He had howled when she hit the wall – howled, so they believed her killed. It had made them leave her alone. A very useful deception.

But he would not leave her like this.

"Lomiel, wake up," he said again. She was alive, burn it. She would be well. He had to believe that, or –

Her eyelids fluttered, and he sighed with relief. Her bond came awake in the back of his head; she was in pain – enough to make her whimper when she tried to move – and he would need to bring her to a Healer. He suspected her hip was broken, and likely a leg as well. Her head rang, too, but there was no visible damage.

A Healer, as soon as possible. But he knew his Aes Sedai. So first… "Zumashi is dead," he informed her.

"Well done," she rasped, but her voice came cool and steady, in blatant defiance of how her hip burned. Her eyes remained closed, and she fought to keep her expression smooth. The strain of it showed. "The Warders?"

"One lives," Haqon told her. "And has fled. I will need to hunt him down."

Her nod was curt, but her face was nearly as white as her dress. "Go."

"Can I really –"

"Yes, Haqon. You may leave me like this. I am… not dying yet."

He did not like it – but he accepted it. Light, if she told him to cut off his right hand and feed it to a trolloc, he would accept that, too, more fool he. And now, she was aware. As long as she was _aware_...

"If I feel you faint," he said, in as firm a tone as he dared use with her, "I will come back, and bring you to a Healer."

"Careful if you must carry me," she told him, and closed her eyes. She had regained control of her face – it was all schooled smoothness. "There are important blood vessels near the hip, and if one of them ruptures…"

"I understand."

"Now stop wasting time, and find that Warder."

"Yes, Lomiel," he said, and hurried.

His thoughts spun as he left the building. Stay with Lomiel, or finish the job?

They had had the same argument before, and ever Lomiel had won it. He suspected that she cheated. Apparently Aes Sedai could compel their Warders; she had told him so herself. Whether or not that was the case, Haqon didn't care to investigate. If not, then not. But if yes… if yes, and if he grew angry with her, he would cause them both pain.

Then again, why would he be angry? He trusted Lomiel, and his one regret would likely be that she saw it necessary to compel him instead of trusting him to obey. He wanted her to trust in him, as he did in her.

He trusted her, but at the same time, he was loath to leave her so weakened. He kept himself constantly aware of the bond – likely that distracted him from the task at hand, but then so be it! – and he was ready to spin and run back in a moment.

He found Ardovin in a back alley. The man was breathing still, very shallowly. He was blackened and scorched and blood seeped out between the crusts of soot and melted skin. By the look of him he should rightly have been dead, but he kept trying to climb back to his feet, kept dragging himself forward. Neither his arms nor his legs would obey him. One of his hands was gone, leaving only a black stump. At places his chain mail shirt seemed to have melted and hardened again as lumps digging into his flesh and wounds. His features were beyond recognition, but Haqon knew him because he was so badly burned, and he wore the remains of a Warder's cloak. He couldn't imagine anyone else nearby who would fit those criteria.

"Dark Lord… take you," he croaked as he saw Haqon.

"Another day, perhaps," Haqon replied calmly. He set a foot between Ardovin's shoulder blades and pressed down. Lightly; he wanted the man able to speak. "Now where would you be going?"

"Away," Ardovin hissed. "Somewhere… safe. Get… help."

"_Help_?" Haqon paused. "From who?"

"Not _telling_."

Haqon believed him. He was Warder, after all. And even if Lomiel had been strong enough to Heal his wounds so that he might live, it might take days to drag the information out of him. Haqon was keen to get back to his Aes Sedai; he hadn't the time nor the patience for a half-dead prisoner. "Did you know what she was? What Ajah?"

"She was… glorious," Ardovin replied, somewhere between sorrow and wistfulness and hatred. "She had _power_. She…"

"Power is overrated, I think."

"What… would you know? Bound… to that… weak bitch… that White."

Haqon leaned down. "But my _weak bitch White_ still lives." He had no compunctions about slitting Ardovin's throat.

Then he hurried back to Lomiel. She was fainting away, bit by bit, and when he reached her all response she gave to his greeting was a weak fluttering of her eyelashes, a momentary frown, and then she grew still. He gathered her as gently as he could into his arms and rose.

There was, burn it, only one option. Lomiel had known of one other Aes Sedai in the city. A Yellow. Lotha Sedai.

A Yellow, and likely a bloody _Black_, too. But Lotha was not on Lomiel's list yet. Lomiel had not yet found out enough about her to kill her. What her assignment was, who was in her Heart; that was crucial knowledge.

But Black or not, Lotha _was_ a Yellow, and the best option Haqon had. He had dealt with the Dark One before, and it did not bother him. Lomiel was practical – she would not disapprove. But he would keep the Yellow under eyes. If she made a false move...

With his Aes Sedai cradled in his arms, cradled as carefully as if she had been a favoured, fragile porcelain doll, he hurried to the inn where the Yellow was staying. _The Noble Goose_, it was called. Everyone who saw him and the unconscious woman in his arms paused to stare after them, but he didn't care.

His only regret was that this would firmly name Lomiel to have visited the same city as two murdered sisters, but that could not be helped. It was a large city – and it would take a mind to match Lomiel's own to draw such conclusions from the two incidents. And with a little word game on his part, perhaps he could turn Lomiel, too, into a victim in this tragedy.

Lotha Sedai was a diminutive woman with small black eyes and an apparent liking for brightly coloured silk, which did not necessarily need to match the glass bead jewellery she wore around her neck and wrists, and in her hair.

Luck favoured Haqon – she was enjoying a meal in a quiet corner of _The Noble Goose_'s common room when he burst through the door, and a startled maid pointed her out to him as soon as she saw the blood on Lomiel's face, and on his garments.

Lotha Sedai asked no questions. "Light, _Gaidin_, be careful with her!" she breathed as Haqon approached. So she recognized Lomiel's ageless face at once and decided he was her Warder – an observant woman. Haqon would remember that and be twice as careful.

She swept an arm across the table, and everything on it went flying as if struck – likely struck by Air.

Haqon lowered Lomiel onto the cleared surface with a sigh of relief. Whether Lotha was Black or not made no difference, not at the moment; she was Yellow, too. And Yellows had it in their hearts to Heal things. Tomorrow she might find who they were, what they had done, and contrive to kill them, but today she saw blood and habit as strong as instinct caught hold of her.

"Who is she?" Lotha demanded, as her hands travelled over Lomiel's still form. "What happened to her?"

"Lomiel, of the White. Someone didn't like that she was Aes Sedai," said Haqon. He was still trembling, but made no move to stop it. It fitted nicely with his tale. "At least – at least I think so. They – they were after her like hounds. She couldn't – couldn't evade them, couldn't stop them. And I – was too far away. They finally threw her out a window. Likely thought her dead. I – I should have –"

"Hush, _Gaidin_. None of your self-pity."

Haqon bit back his rush of words. "Then – then she'll _live_?"

"Of course she will," Lotha snapped. She set her hands to Lomiel's head and focused.

Lomiel convulsed and drew sharply for breath. "_Haqon_," she mumbled at once.

He took her hand and squeezed it. "Right here."

"Welcome back, sister," Lotha said. Her smile was triumphant. "You're lucky your Warder brought you to me. You had quite a bad fall..."

Lomiel blinked at her. Her bond was confused, but the confusion was already settling. "Lotha," she said finally. "You... Healed me?"

"That I did. You ought to be more careful. Letting the common folk get you. When you've got a Warder, then bloody well keep him beside you, and you won't have to fly through any more windows. Out here in the world, White, not everyone likes us." There was admonishment in that – and Ajah rivalry. Whites were not known for their grasp of popular opinion.

"Windows?" Lomiel did not look at Haqon, did not blink, but slowly closed her eyes. "It's... it's all a bit muddled."

"No wonder. You had a few broken bones and suffered a nasty blow to the head."

Lomiel gave a slow nod. "I thank you, sister," she whispered.

Lotha patted her shoulder. "Think nothing of it. Let me get you a room, and a decent meal, and..." She looked up at Haqon. "Blood and ashes, man. Did Lomiel find a mob of commoners with _swords_? Or what is it that's cut you so up?"

Haqon shrugged. "I'm... not sure, Lotha Sedai," he lied smoothly, letting his voice quaver just so, as if his fear had not quite settled yet. He flickered his gaze between her and Lomiel. "I was..."

"Thinking of your Lomiel and nothing else, if I know you Warders," scoffed Lotha. "Very well, lean forward."

"Pardon, Aes Sedai?"

She gestured for him to lean over the table, towards her. "I mean to Heal you, too, _Gaidin_. I can't imagine Lomiel would disapprove. Or am I mistaken, sister?"

"No," said Lomiel softly. "Please proceed, sister."

Haqon shivered through the Healing. Then he helped Lomiel to her feet – she was weak as a newborn and unsteady, but alive and would recover fine, he was certain – and followed a maid to a room upstairs which Lotha ordered for them. The girl bobbed at least ten curtsies between opening the door for them and closing it behind her as she left, and she promised to bring up two laden plates with warm food.

"I had planned to be out of the city come morning," Lomiel said dryly, "but I suppose we can remain here a day, as to not seem in too much of a hurry. Now that we've been identified as present, by another sister." He had placed her on the bed, and she sat on its edge, and watched him as he made a routine check of the room. "Whatever happened to the innkeeper there, I think our horses and things will be safe at _The Poached Hare_, no need to send for them."

Haqon silently disagreed. There would be a commotion at the Poached Hare when the six dead were discovered, and he suspected the innkeeper and cook and the two serving maids had met a brutal end before his and Lomiel's arrival. There was nothing in their things which left any clues of who they were; they both travelled light. And the horses weren't special. All of it could be abandoned. Better if they gave no further clue as to ever have visited the inn. But he would argue his case in the morning, not now. Lomiel needed food and rest, and not arguments.

Haqon had listened at the door to make certain they were truly alone, and asked. "Lotha Sedai, is she really..?"

"As far as I can make out, yes. But she's never shown any connection to Zumashi and Ylwenia – not even now. If she had, well..."

Haqon nodded. Had Lotha in the last day shown ties to Zumashi and Ylwenia, they would have killed her, too. Of course, having word about that one Aes Sedai – Lomiel – had been assaulted in a place might add well to the story of how two others – Ylwenia and Zumashi – had been killed.

With a dash of luck, however, the city's more dishonest populace would clean up some of their mess – rob Ylwenia and her Warder where they lay in that alley and quietly dispose of the bodies. Ylwenia would simply disappear. Zumashi, however… that mess was unlikely to disappear. Haqon wanted to grimace. _What_ a mess. And he didn't want to leave Lomiel here, beneath the same roof as another Black sister, while he went to try to clean it up.

"You did right in bringing me to Lotha, in any case," Lomiel went on.

Haqon met her eyes. "I figured it was your only chance, and as far as I knew, Lotha Sedai had no reason to kill you."

Lomiel chuckled. "As far as _Lotha_ knows, she doesn't. Fortunate for us." She studied him, her bond like her face serene and – and _proud_. Very proud. "Back there, Haqon. With the Black and her five… well done," she praised him. A rare smile broke across her features. A _smile_!

Haqon couldn't help it: her bond was glowing enough to make him slightly giddy. He grinned back at her, feeling like a much younger man, a man who still remembered how to smile, how to laugh, how to feel accomplished and triumphant, who could revel in a moment of victory. In the light of Lomiel's praise, he forgot the mess left in _The Poached Hare_. Done was done, and fretting over it would do no good.

"Very well done," she repeated, her heart in every word.

With a bit of effort he composed his features – his emotions she could read without him plastering them on his face. And even that much younger man had known his manners; he bowed formally to her. "Honour to serve, Lomiel Sedai. For what may yet come, I stand ready."

"I know you do." For once, _her_ emotions _were_ plastered on her face. Affection, and more pride. Haqon tucked her expression away in his memory like a treasured gift.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

I wanted to do a battle scene, so I did. I wanted to show Haqon In Full Glory, so I did. When Lomiel says that Haqon is very, very good, she's not lying. I've patched the last of this up rather hastily, so if you catch any mistakes, please tell me. You're going to be a good little reader and punch the review button anyway, aren't you?

Anyhow, I have a little surprise. If I can get the links to work... just delete all the spaces between and it should be fine.

Watene and Dahlan: h t t p : / / pics . livejournal . com / stormfairy / pic / 0000xg43

Jahra and Jored: h t t p : / / pics . livejournal . com / stormfairy / pic / 0000wtgg


	18. Recruit: Part 1: Friend

**Recruit**

_Part 1. Friend_

The grandly named Sathamon Mashuna was the fifth-born son of a Tearen noble, and had been sent to Tar Valon on one of his father's many whims. Every day since his arrival he had half expected to receive a missive calling him home again, but if it came, he had no intention of going. A mere week under tutelage in the Tower had convinced him that this was where he ought to be. Two and a half years had hardened him enough to tell his father his mind, and burn the consequences.

Here, he was challenged. At home nothing had been difficult, nothing had cost him any effort. Here, even better; he had friends. Once they finished mocking his name they settled for calling him just Sath, and he delighted in it. He'd never much liked his name. His mother called him _dearest_, and his brothers called him _twerp_, or _midget_, and the servants had all called him "yes, young master". The only one who ever called him _Sathamon_ was his father, who only addressed him after he'd ended up in some sort of trouble.

_Sath_ suited him far better.

"Sath, there's a smudge on your tabard," said Giller from beside him, taking hold of the corner of Sath's white leather recruit tabard and brushing at it carefully.

Sath thanked him with a nod, looking himself and his companions over. There were eight of them all together, all boys, Tardiel the youngest at a proud ten and three days, and Giller the oldest at thirteen. They stood neatly lined up in their corner of the practice yard and awaiting the day's drill master, who should arrive just as the sun peeked above the practice yard walls.

They were about as ready for their morning inspection as they ever were, which meant that, as usual, Keron hadn't blackened his boots enough. Lewen's unruly curls were already coming out of the tail he tried to keep them in – he should really cut that mess short and be done, thought Sath, silently deciding, if not for the first time, to team up with Giller and Larm later and take the matter into their own hands. Huro was yawning sleepily; he'd been up most of the night playing dice with Jensol and Tardiel, but Tardiel never needed much sleep and Jensol, as usual, looked fresh as new and was whistling quietly to himself as he waited, calm and tabard perfectly clean. That lucky bastard could swim a swamp and come up with polished boots, gleaming belt buckle, and his tabard white as new-fallen snow, and Sath couldn't figure out how he did it. They all teased Jensol that some glitzy, fashion-conscious Yellow would snatch him and dress him in ribbons and he'd fit perfectly. He said it would be a Green, but Jensol wasn't pretty enough to catch a Green.

"Smarten up already," came a growl from their right, and the boys snapped their spines straight and faced forward, left fist clenched in front of their chests in salute, and the right palm resting rigid on top of it, the thumb facing their tabarded chests.

"Good morning, boys," the growl continued. It was Ferthon, a grizzled Grey's Warder, who came at them with the smart, clipping gate his limp gave him. Sath had seen enough of him in the training rings to know how that limp disappeared when Ferthon wanted it to. He limped and hunched his shoulders as if to disguise himself, just as his sour face and growling voice were there to hide what – Sath was sure – was a warm heart.

Sure enough, Ferthon inspected them and although he commented on the black rings beneath Huro's eyes and had sharp words both for Lewen's hair and Keron's boots, he didn't set any penances or make them wait until the flaw was fixed. Some of their instructors could have the boys stand there at attention for hours in the morning until someone's boot was blackened just _so_, or a marginally stained tabard had been rewashed and its leather re-oiled and gleamed white as bloody perfection.

But Ferthon simply let them fold their tabards neatly and stack them on a bench, and set them to practice the Routine Of Red Autumn. He allowed them to use their steel blades instead of wooden ones, which put a grin on every face. They'd all earned their first stripe of swordsmanship and been past wooden blades for half a year, but some instructors still insisted they use them. As if they'd been no more than infants, to be coddled. Oh, sure, once in a while someone still cut his own leg with a thoughtless stroke, but that only taught them the faster, didn't it?

Ferthon led them once through the Routine, and then let them practice at their own pace while he went around. Again his warm heart showed through, Sath thought. Ferthon corrected without impatience, didn't snap with a riding crop at a falsely tilted elbow or foot, and was one of few among their many teachers who actually seemed to understand that what they, the Warders, could do in their sleep, was new and bloody difficult to the recruits.

It turned into a pleasant morning. Not too hot, not too cold, no rain, with a generous portion of oatmeal in his belly, a good instructor, and to top it: Sath _liked_ the Routine Of Red Autumn. If done correctly it _felt_ correct, so either it told him at once where he was wrong or it made him feel very good about himself. It rooted in a stance called Graces Of The Fall, and wove its way, "much like a breeze through the rustling leafy canopy of a tree" in the words of Harrow Gaidin, from one movement to the next, returning always to Graces Of The Fall before moving on.

Ferthon came by and corrected the angle of his wrists in Shield Of Branches, and then studied him critically as he repeated that part of the Routine. From the third Graces Of The Fall, a hasty step back in Avoiding First Blood, his sword arching ("watch your balance there, lad, right foot further out") up and over as he spun to strike in Whip Of The Willow, three dashing steps and as many dancing flourishes of his blade in Playing With The Sparrow ("good, but faster"), then a jarring halt and stab back over his shoulder – which he had to twist into and face before it hit or it would be useless in combat – in Scent On High ("stop waving about and stab true, do it again")… Sath obliged: three Playing With The Sparrow, then swung the blade about, set himself firmly behind its motion, and _felt_ how everything simply lined up and the sword barely quivered as he completed Scent On High to Ferthon's grumbled "much better, lad". Sath danced through Leaves In The Night, gathered himself and sprung into the air, coming down in Owl Swoops From His Perch, and then that burned Shield Of Branches, where Ferthon stopped him again, still grumbling over the angle of his wrists.

"Here, see?" he muttered, holding Sath's wrist as he wanted it. "You're strong here. You can take a trolloc's bloody axe and you're still strong enough to shove it aside. But here…" He angled Sath's wrist back to how he'd held it. "Here your wrist will snap like a dry twig if you don't just drop the blade, and in either case you'll get a trolloc's axe in your face. And watch your footing. That right foot of yours needs more space and then your balance will improve. If your balance improves, you'll turn more easily from Playing With The Sparrow into Scent On High." He nudged Sath's foot out with one toe. "There. Now, again. From Leaves In The Night."

Sath obliged him. After three more times Ferthon nodded at him and moved on. Sath set himself to begin again, from the start, feeling oddly proud. Although Ferthon often gave praise in that gruff manner he had, he never did it before he was happy. Seeing Ferthon say "good", and walk off, meant that you was doing something right.

Perhaps he would earn his second stripe of swordsmanship soon. The first he and the others had earned as a group, but the second and third were earned individually. Larm, burn him, had already earned his last week, more than a year earlier than was common, but Sath was determined to be second.

He settled in the Routine's first Graces Of The Fall, trying to relax into the stance as he knew he ought to, and glanced over at Larm. Ferthon was nodding in grudging approval as Larm flourished through Rustles In Red And Gold, landed with perfect balance after Fox's Leap, swept through the rest in a bewitching dance, and slowed to grace and simplicity in the last part of the Routine, where Girl Twirls In Sunlight melded into Light Rain which was followed by Canopy Shelters The Heart, and First Flakes Of Snow before he came again into Graces Of The Fall, and at once all tension ran from his body and he stood as easily as… well, as easily that bloody "flower about to surrender its petals to the whims of winter", as Master At Arms Kentrin had muttered about when they first learned the Routine.

Larm just did everything perfect. He was the best in their year.

"Bastard," Sath muttered amiably, and focused back on his own work. He _would_ be second.

To the other side of him came a sudden shriek, and he spun to find Keron taking a bad landing after his Owl Swoops From His Perch, ending up in a graceless heap on the ground. Ferthon looked up and limped over quick enough to hunch down beside Keron. Keron's face was drawn and his lips set as if not to whimper, and he clutched his leg just above the ankle and stared at it fixedly.

"The rest of you keep practicing," Ferthon snapped at them. Then he raised his voice to bellow; "Marlisle Sedai, if you would be so kind..!"

A plump little Aes Sedai in lavender silks with amethysts around her throat and wrists came gliding over from the other end of the practice yard, where the Warders were sparring. The boys all paused their practice to snap to attention and salute her as she passed them. She settled her silk skirts and her yellow shawl about her and knelt beside Keron, heedless of the dust, to examine his foot.

Keron, of course, blushed red as a tomato, and stammered his responses. Then suddenly he shuddered and saluted and thanked her. The Aes Sedai gave him a friendly smile and a quick pinch on the cheek, and strode back toward the practicing Warders. _They_ were sparring with sharp blades, naturally, and if something went wrong she would need to be nearby.

They worked through the morning, sparred – with _wooden_ blades, burn Ferthon – for two hours into the afternoon, and came away with hunger roaring in their bellies.

"Did you break it?" Larm asked as they headed for the mess hall, and swung an arm about Keron's shoulders.

"Nah," Keron said, who shrugged the arm off. "Just sprained. But Ferthon didn't want me missing the sparring."

"Anyway, you got yourself Healed," Larm grinned.

"You managed to waste an Aes Sedai's time," Huro chipped in, grin as broad as Larm's.

"Congrats! You're washing all our tabards tonight."

Keron sighed but did not argue. It was tradition.

Sath swept his eyes over the Warders' end of the mess hall as he entered it, and sure enough… "I'll be back in a moment," he said to the others, and jogged off.

"Bootlicker!" Giller whispered loudly after him, but Sath didn't care.

He'd made a fool of himself in front of the entire mess hall during his second month in the Tower. Oh, he'd been a boy of eight at the time, but a fool was a fool and he was determined to make up for it. He approached Jored, snapped to attention and saluted, then waited to be addressed.

"Yes, lad?" Jored said in his calm voice, and looked up from his book. Jored was in the taller end of average height, more lean than muscular but not as bony as many old people were, and he didn't walk about projecting _danger_ on principle as many Warders did. In fact as Warders came, he wasn't the most impressive, and the other boys weren't very impressed at all. But Sath had no doubt that Jored was as deadly as any if he needed to be. It was his eyes – Sath's mother always said that you can see a man's past in his eyes. And even though Jored's hair had grown grey, there were wrinkles aplenty around his eyes, and a young lad like Sath couldn't help but count him among the _old_, he had the eyes of someone who had seen more than one lifetime ought to. Seen more, and it had not broken him.

Sath wanted very much to be like that. To be tested and come out strong.

"Last I saw you, Gaidin, you were reading _Reflections on Yesterday's Thought_, and that was five days ago," Sath told him. Jored had instructed him to pay attention to his surroundings, and to remember them. He grew better and better at it.

"Correct," Jored said with a nod. "I dismissed you because my Aes Sedai came. What colour were her slippers?"

"Black, leather, with a low heel; not slippers at all but proper shoes," Sath said. "She wore a riding gown in ginger-coloured woollens."

"Good," said Jored. "What is the number of the page I am currently reading?"

Sath glanced down at the book in the Warder's hands, but he had closed it, held it upside down, and his finger was stuck in to hold his place perhaps half-way through. "I… I didn't check, Gaidin," he admitted.

"The name of the book?"

Sath didn't remember reading the title, but he must have done it reflexively, for it sprung to mind at once. "_Three Wars of the Malonian Province_."

"Correct. Where is Malonia?"

"Malonia was in Ghealdan, but today that name is no longer used. Prince Rashk lost the third war and his brother had him drawn and quartered and dissolved the Malonian separatist government."

"You've been doing your homework."

Sath grinned at him. "Actually, Gaidin, we were lectured on Ghealdan's civil wars yesterday, so that was just a bit of luck."

"Luck didn't make you remember it. Do you have a question for me today?"

Sath nodded. If he answered Jored's questions well, he would sometimes receive an answer in turn, often on things few Warders or instructors spoke of. Such as the bond, or something of the Ajahs, or what the Blight was actually _like_, not just a boring study of what you might encounter in it. "Yes, Gaidin. How do you know who is a Darkfriend?"

"The simple answer is, you don't know. Darkfriends are like everyone else."

"But if they're like everyone else, how come we sometimes catch them?"

"Because sometimes a Darkfriend will do something that no one but a Darkfriend would," Jored said. "An easy example, from the Borderlands. A Darkfriend might open a gate in order to let in trollocs and Myrddraal, but an ordinary person never would."

"So we can only catch them when they do something bad?"

"Mostly," Jored said. "That's when they reveal their true nature. Sometimes, though, we can catch them by association with other Darkfriends. But that's a thin line to walk. One Darkfriend might easily lie and name someone out of spite instead of truth."

"Is it true that Warders can smell Darkfriends?"

Jored hesitated, then answered with some reluctance; "I wouldn't call it _smell_. We can sense trollocs and Myrddraal, as you know, and it's similar to that. But a human needs to be _very_ deeply involved with the Dark One before we notice. At least that's what I've heard. I've never actually met a Darkfriend so deep in the Shadow that I could _feel_ him."

"Have you met any real Darkfriends?" Sath wondered eagerly.

Jored shook his head; not a denial, just a dismissal. "Enough, lad, and more than someone your age should fret over."

Sath straightened indignantly. _His_ age? He was nearing eleven, and he wasn't far from his second stripe of swordsmanship, he was sure of it. But he'd learned to hold his tongue and so he said nothing. Instead he saluted as Jored dismissed him, and jogged off to join the others.

- - -

Kentrin, the Master At Arms himself, held their afternoon lessons, and led them through drills in the use of a handaxe and a small shield. Sath wasn't sure if he'd ever seen a Warder actually carry about an axe and shield, but that didn't matter.

As none of the boys had drilled enough with an axe to know much of its control, their sparring turned more and more into half-wild wrestling matches, padded axes and shields gone and fists touch-punching everything they could reach. Naturally there were as many bruises as there were laughs, but the Master At Arms just shook his head and left them at it.

By late afternoon it had begun to rain and it was a good thing their tabards were folded neat off to one side, as they all ended up muddy and sodden. The Master At Arms finally boomed in his good-natured manner that he'd had enough of their piggish ways, that he'd seen trollocs with more discipline, that his _grandmother_ could likely swing an axe better than the lot of them and she was thirty years buried, Light rest her soul. Then he repeated the well-known maxim of how boys with too much energy got themselves into trouble, and promptly set them to running two laps around the entire Tower complex.

They were delighted to be let out through the gates – under the dubious authority of Lewen, who was perhaps the most responsible among them – and ran their laps cheerfully. Larm had learned a bawdy song from one of the older recruit groups, and they sang _What Seven Wars And Seven Wenches Taught Me_ even though they didn't understand half of it. But they all knew instinctively that it was the type of song that would make the Master At Arms assign them another ten laps and then have them doing balance stances until sunrise, and that made it good enough to sing.

Once finished, they washed and ate and retired to their dorm for the night, hanging their sodden clothing to dry on racks near the two fireplaces. Huro chose not to join Jensol and Tardiel for another game of dice, but Keron sat himself at the room's water barrel with a large bar of leather soap and began scrubbing whatever stains the tabards had taken during the day. Even though they hadn't been wearing them, there was still mud here and there, and since it had rained on them they needed re-oiling. Poor Keron would be working through much of the night, Sath estimated. Lucky for him that Tardiel won at dice against Jensol, and was in such a good mood that he took care of his own tabard and one more, to ease Keron's work load.

When Sath went to bed, Keron was still working in his corner under the light of a small lamp, and Larm was practicing Cat On The Fence atop the balance bar in the centre of the room, while Jensol and Tardiel talked quietly over a study book. He drifted off to the murmur of voices.

- - -

When Sath woke up it was with Larm's hand over his mouth. "Shh," the other boy said. "How about a bit of fun?"

Sath yawned and didn't much feel like any 'fun' at all, but he wasn't about to miss out, either. Larm would never let him forget it. He clambered down from his top bunk and gave Giller, in the bottom bunk, a tap with his toes as he went. "Hey, Gill, wake up. Larm wants –"

"Bugger Larm," Giller muttered, probably more asleep than awake despite talking. "Wake me when it's time to eat." Giller was growing near an inch a day, and he was constantly hungry. And even more difficult to drag out of bed than usual.

"Aah, is Gilly hurting?" Larm cooed at him. "Not surprising. After the beating I gave you today, I'll be surprised if you can even get yourself up for breakfast, much less a bit of fun."

Giller muttered something into his pillow and drew his blankets tighter about himself.

"His choice," Larm said.

"Where are you going?" Keron asked. It was full dark outside, the moon high, and Keron was still oiling tabards.

"Out. I'd ask you to come, but…" Larm shrugged.

"Yeah, the tabards, I know," Keron muttered, glaring at the white leather spread over his lap. "It had to be the _White_ Tower, hadn't it? Couldn't they have called it the Muddy Brown Tower? Or the _Spotted_ Tower?"

Chuckling, Sath slipped on a grey tunic and his breeches, wool socks and boots. Larm was dressed in the same, but as a pride badge he wore the dagger allotted anyone who reached the second stripe of swordsmanship. Sath promised himself again that he would be second to reach that stripe. He would.

He followed Larm out the window. They kept to the dark near the wall… there weren't many guards near the Warder barracks, but some Warders kept odd hours and if they were caught out this late they would likely be confined to the balancing poles and reciting the nineteen recruit rules until they fell off. Larm could have lasted a day, Sath was sure, but he himself didn't much relish the humiliation of falling off before the sun hit noon.

"So what are we up to?" he asked Larm as they made their sneaking way to the dark of the outer wall, skirting the shadows at the edge of buildings and a small thicket of trees where benches and tables were set up so that Aes Sedai could sit in cool shade and watch their Warders train without being in the middle of the clamour.

"We're sneaking out," Larm informed him. "See, my pa sent me a fat silver when he heard I'd gotten my second stripe, and I know a chocolate factory just outside the eastern gate. I thought I'd buy myself a treat. You're welcome to some, too, of course."

"At _this_ hour?"

"They'll be up already, to make the toffees and chocolates for the day," Larm said with perfect confidence. "Aunt Breina runs a chocolate factory in Cairhien, so I know."

Sath yawned again, rolling his eyes to hear of yet another of Larm's many aunties. "So how are we getting out?"

"I don't know," Larm said. "But I'm sure I'll know at least one of the guards, and…" He shrugged.

Sath believed him. Larm seemed to know someone everywhere, and his network of contacts was always willing to help him out. He'd get the serving maids to wash for him, sometimes, with little more than a smile and a bow and some courtly fashions – even though Sath's own background was much more courtly than Larm's, as Larm's pa was a Cairhien merchant, nothing more, while Sath was born noble. And he could get the guards to let him out of the Tower grounds, or to forget that they'd seen and caught him when he tried to sneak out. Sath couldn't figure how he did it. If he or any of the others got caught, they'd be told on and bundled off to punishment in an instance, but Larm seemed able to get away with anything.

Sath was jealous, but it _was_ useful.

Larm set a hand to his chest to stop them, and the two hovered as still as they could make themselves in a shadow while in the shadows on the other side of the yard, a shape moved. It was an Aes Sedai, not very skilful at keeping herself hidden. When he strained his eyes Sath could see the Warder a couple of steps ahead of her, in his camouflaging cloak. All that revealed him was a gleam of his eye as he turned to face her and lifted a flap of that cloak for her to step in beneath it. They both disappeared into the shifting darkness when the cloak flap fell over the little woman.

"Are they still standing there?" Larm whispered tensely. "Are they moving?"

"I don't know," Sath replied and tried to see.

"Blood and ashes," Larm hissed. "Can't go while we're not sure."

Sath nodded uneasily.

"I want one of those cloaks," Larm muttered after a while. "I _so_ want one of those bloody cloaks. I'd save my silvers for a year if I thought I could buy one."

"Shut up," Sath said nervously.

Larm quieted. He wasn't completely senseless.

Which was when a young woman in a white dress and a white cloak appeared; so obviously a Novice, and so openly darting across the practice yard that Sath felt a fool for not standing up and pointing her out. She ran right into the arms of the guardsman at the gate, and proceeded to…

Well, to quite thoroughly kiss him.

Sath made a face and looked away, and while Larm grinned from ear to ear and nudged him conspiratorially.

"They're moving," Larm said then, his voice all business. "That Warder and his Aes Sedai. They're moving."

Sath looked up. As Larm had said; still under the cloak, and difficult to see, the pair were moving right out through the gate while the guardsman on duty was… distracted. He'd pulled the Novice with him into the small guardhouse, there in case it rained, and it wasn't very likely he was looking out.

"This is our chance," Larm decided. "Hurry!"

The two darted out the gate and into the city.

They jogged along the castle wall to the chocolate factory, and knocked on the door. The lights were on inside, and a woman peeked her head out. Larm addressed her with a bow and some courtly manners, and she smiled and ruffled his hair, took his silver and then came out with a paper bag full of chocolate treats.

"They're last week's, so you get them at half off," she said, "but there's nothing wrong with them."

One peek inside the bag told Sath that she'd put much more in there than a silver was worth. A silver was a lot of money for a boy, but chocolate was dearly expensive. He whistled lowly, and snatched one to pop in his mouth before Larm could object.

Larm grumbled about wanting to pick first, and the two jabbered at each other while they walked on. By the time they reached the gate again they were silent, and wondering however they should get back in without being noticed. Surely the Novice would have gone…

A girl's giggles told them how wrong they were on that count. The Novice was still there, and the male voice that followed must have been the guardsman.

"This is easier than falling on your head," commented Larm.

"Well, let's go, before it gets difficult again –" Sath began forward, but Larm snatched his arm and jerked him back into a shadow.

Two Aes Sedai strode through the crack between the gate doors. Their hoods were up but there was no mistaking that peremptory posture and, even in a lawful city like Tar Valon, women didn't usually go out alone in the middle of the night if they weren't Aes Sedai. They had their heads together and spoke to one-another in what they likely considered low voices, but Sath's senses were pricked and he caught their words clear as if they'd spoken to his face.

"– and I told you, Huianda, that I don't care how many rotten eggs you smell. You're going. If there's something odd going on, just call for me and I'll be right there. But you _are_ going."

"The orders came to _you_, not me," grumbled the taller of the two, who had the typical slanted eyes and hawkish nose of a Saldean. "We're of the same Heart, Layette, but we can't go exchanging orders as we please…"

"We're not _exchanging_," hissed Layette. "_I_ am delegating. _You_ are _obeying_."

"Reds?" Sath guessed. They both wore silk beneath their cloaks, and the dresses could have been red… it was difficult to tell when all he had to go on was the way the moonlight slanted across the moving fabric, distorting shapes and colours. "No Warders."

"Come on," Larm said, "let's follow them. I bet you my entire bag of chocolates that we'll learn something interesting. Any idea what a Heart is, by the way?"

Sath shook his head. He supposed he could ask Jored when next he was allowed a question. Aes Sedai were tight-lipped about their hierarchy. He knew there were the Amyrlin and the Hall, and the Ajah Heads, but aside from that he knew nothing. Perhaps a Heart was a smaller group that worked together.

He was curious, and for a bag of chocolates besides… it was worth the risk. If the guradsman here suddenly remembered his duty, they could always try to climb the wall to the west again, they'd done that before and just a bit of bad luck had ended them in guardsmen hands.

"You're on," he told Larm, and the two began to follow the Aes Sedai.

It was apparent that the Aes Sedai was following something else. Layette led them, stopping now and again at a crossroads as if she'd been a wolfhound sniffing for the scent, before briskly taking off down a road or alley with Huianda in tow. The two boys kept their distance and only crept closer when the Aes Sedai stopped.

"I'll wait here until you come back out," Layette informed coolly. "Be quick about it." She drew her cloak about herself and pulled back into a shadow, and from there watched Huianda continue grudgingly fifty steps down the street and enter a shop.

"We'll go around and find a better view," Sath suggested, and Larm nodded. They circled around a few blocks and came at the shop from another direction. They passed by its back door, listening but hearing nothing, and then dared up the side alley beside it.

"That Aes Sedai is still watching this way, we can't go into the street," Larm reported after sneaking a glance beyond the side wall. He'd done it flat on his belly to keep his profile as invisible as possible.

They could still see in through the shop's narrow side windows. A quick glance showed how the window display and all the shelves inside were empty, and it looked pretty much abandoned. But the floor was swept and the windows washed; likely someone was ready to move in.

Peering inside, Sath could see into the inner room, where one woman paced past the doorway. She was too short to be Huianda; she must have been whoever Huianda had come to meet. There was also a shape just outside the doorway, which Sath didn't see at first. When he did, he jerked his head back. A man in a Warder's cloak. And if the man hadn't seen Sath peering in, that was just plain luck.

"There's another Aes Sedai and a Warder in there," he concluded. "The Warder is keeping watch towards the windows."

"Let me see," urged Larm, and with all caution he inched his head up over the edge of the windowsill, so that his eye barely passed the corner, and as he drew back – just as slowly, to avoid notice – he chuckled. "Guess what? That's your Jored Gaidin in there."

"Jored Gaidin? How –"

"He turned his head for a moment to listen into the back room. I saw his face. It's him, or I'm a bleating sheep."

Sath tried to take in the news and… couldn't quite believe it. Whatever would Jored be doing here, in the middle of the night? He was a respectable Warder, and his Aes Sedai was always so… so… well, he couldn't imagine her sneaking about _anything_. She was a _Brown_, by the Light! He had never seen her without a book or a notepad in her hands, and a far-off slant to her gaze.

But if Jored Gaidin was out here, Jahra Sedai surely was, too. Which _really_ tickled his curiosity.

And made him anxious. The last person in the world he wanted to catch him sneaking about like this was Jored Gaidin. He'd rather have Kentrin, the Master At Arms, materialise from thin air and grab him and Larm both by the ears that very moment.

"Let's go," he said uneasily to Larm.

"No, let's stay," Larm disagreed eagerly. "Think of what we might hear..!"

They argued it back and forth in hushed voices, while for a long while nothing happened. They shared some more chocolates and debated whether or not they should creep into the house, but finally Larm gave in and agreed that while following Aes Sedai through the darkened streets was one thing, creeping into a house where Aes Sedai were conducting private business would likely get them flogged. So they waited, bored, until Larm began to see the sense in abandoning the entire business and returning to the Tower grounds. If they were really lucky, that Novice would still be there, or the vines that grew outside the western wall wouldn't have been cleared away. Apparently it was a rare vine and some enthusiast Brown liked its flowers and had fought to keep it, arguing that it wasn't strong enough to support an invader trying to get in. Which was true enough; it was barely strong enough to support a boy of near eleven.

"Now what have we here?" whispered a sharp, clipping voice. Somehow it managed to convey 'sharp' and 'clipping' despite being barely audible.

Sath realised that he couldn't move. He was snagged in a noose of Air, and a look at Larm's bulging eyes told him the same had happened to his friend.

"Little boys..? In Tower recruit _uniforms_? What a… coincidence." Her voice drooped with distrust.

"Layette Sedai," Larm began, doing a head-bob that was the closest thing to a bow he could manage, "we can explain. We were –"

"Young Larmdien, of the dismissible House Darondel," sneered the Aes Sedai. "Coincidence, again. Just the recruit I've been _dying_ to speak with." She leaned in close. "Someone has been pulling on his father's contacts and speaking _way_ too openly to _special_ friends. I don't _like_ self-important big-mouths running about _my_ turf and jeopardizing my operations for their own personal convenience. Yes, it's _my_ turf, and if I hear of you coaxing one more 'special friend' favour, you little fart, I'll send you back to your father with your tongue in a separate box."

Sath felt rage rising – no one spoke to his friend like that! – but beside him, Larm's face had gone deathly pale. Clearly he understood something Sath didn't.

"Y-yes, Aes Sedai," Larm stammered. "As you say, Aes Sedai."

"Some day, you will thank me for teaching you to hold your tongue," the Aes Sedai snapped at him. "Your neck isn't so young it can't be roped and stretched if you don't learn discretion."

"Yes, Aes Sedai," Larm whispered. "Thank you, Aes Sedai. I… I live only to serve."

"What are you doing here?"

"It's just a bit of fun, Aes Sedai," said Larm at once. "We didn't mean anything by it, I swear. We just thought we'd practice – practice –"

Layette gave a dismissive jerk of her head. "Did you hear anything from inside the house?"

"Nothing, Aes Sedai. And no one has gone in or out since we came, not through the front or the back," Larm supplied with pathetic eagerness.

Sath watched him in bafflement, but both Aes Sedai and Larm seemed to have forgotten he was even there.

"Then you shall do me a favour, and go in first," Layette said to Larm, and stroked his cheek with the long nail of her forefinger. The gesture was not in any way kindly, and the smile she gave him was near gleeful. "Don't worry, pet. I'll spin shadows to hide us and that Warder won't see us coming."

"Larm, we shouldn't –" began Sath, only to have them both round on him. Larm blinked, and frowned, and looked uneasy.

"Is he also a _special_ friend, Larmdien?" came Layette's frosty tones.

"No," Larm whispered. "I don't think so."

"Such a shame," Layette murmured. "Very well. Then be glad; here's a chance to prove that you can be useful._ Kill him_."

Sath realised suddenly that he was free, and so was Larm. Larm turned slowly towards him. He trembled, but grasped his second-stripe knife firmly in his hand.

Sath couldn't believe it. Had he fallen asleep and was having a nightmare? Who was this Aes Sedai, who were these special friends, and however did she know of Larm's pa, and Larm himself, and all those… did she mean the favours Larm always seemed to get everywhere? However did she know of _those_?

His tongue felt glued to the roof of his mouth. Layette had said, with all casualness, "Kill him." Surely she couldn't mean… surely Larm wouldn't… but Larm had his knife in his hand.

Sath's feet felt leaden. He was a screaming voice of panic inside his own head but he couldn't move. Nothing held him; he just _couldn't move_, because he couldn't believe what was happening, wouldn't decide that it was true. If he did, he'd have to _do_ something, and he couldn't for the life of him think what to do.

Larm's knife was in his hand, and Sath himself was unarmed. Larm gave an odd twitch of his head, and muttered "I'm sorry, Sath." Then he attacked.

Sath flowed into motion. Avoiding First Blood pulled him just out of reach, and without thinking he arched his empty hand up and swept as if to strike the Whip Of The Willow, and continued into the three dashing steps for three times Playing With The Sparrow. Unarmed it would turn into a series of jabs with his fists, the same thing aside from his shorter reach, and his jabs –

The entire spectacle took no more than the hint of a moment, but if he had stopped to think about it he would have done everything differently. But he hadn't stopped to think. He had just _reacted_; Avoiding First Blood, and then his body had moved as it had done that same morning, continuing the Routine Of Red Autumn by rote, not by thought. It was a deadly error; Larm knew at once what he was doing, and knew at once _what he would do next_.

Pain exploded in his belly. Larm, who had backed coolly aside from Whip Of The Willow, sidestepped the first Playing With The Sparrow, met Sath's second Sparrow with a low thrust of his knife right into Sath's midriff.

Sath _oofed_ and folded limp over the weapon, over Larm's hand. The world shimmered in white and everything burned. He didn't cry out; he let out a whimpering sound, stifled further by Larm's hand clamped over his mouth, and met his friend's eyes.

"I'm sorry, Sath, I'm sorry, but it's you or – my pa, my aunties, and you don't know what – never told what happened to ma, did I? I'm bloody _sorry_–"

Larm was crying. Burn him, he was crying. Sath saw it through a haze as he half-fell, half was lowered to the cobbles. He'd shoved a blade into Sath's belly without a twinge, but he was bloody crying the bastard, the… the…

Sath dreamily lay back on the cobbles and watched the stranger who had only moments before been his friend stand up, jerking the knife free and wiping it hastily on a clean corner of Sath's tunic. He lay… or perhaps he was still falling. He couldn't quite decide. He couldn't quite breathe, either. A haze, a fog, and nothing seemed real aside from the burn in his midriff.

He closed his eyes and tried to draw air, hitched for air, spasmed from the pain of it, tried to wail… and wanted his mother like he'd never wanted anything in his life. Her safe arms, the scent of her, the warmth of her embrace, and she would kiss his forehead and tell him it was alright, it was just a scrape, a scratch, a bit of blood and it would be well in a moment –

And his mind screamed through the fog and pain that no, it would never be well. He was dying. Alone and for nothing, on his back in an alley, and he hadn't even put up a very good fight. He… he… was…

"Very good, Larmdien. Now, into the store we go."

The store. Larm. The Aes Sedai. And…

Jored Gaidin was still in the store. Sath drew a deep breath. It hurt and he writhed, folding into himself on his side, setting clawing hands to the wound and bit his own lip to stop a scream –

What if he screamed and they heard him and came back? What if he moved, and they saw it, and came back to finish him off? Terror landed like a blow to the head, and he couldn't move, couldn't think.

But the explosion of pain passed, and the paralyzing terror dissipated to a sort of numbing horror, and although every beat of his heart felt like a beast taking a bite out of his chest, somehow he could hitch for air and with air the haze cleared. Another haze was creeping in at the edge of his vision, steadily advancing as the blood left him through the wound, but he didn't think about it.

He had the absurd picture in his mind of Larm sticking that knife into Jored Gaidin, too. Absurd. Jored was a Warder. To him Larm would be just a nuisance. But the picture had fixed itself in Sath's mind and he wasn't in a reasoning enough state to dismiss it. He had to stop it.

Leaden limbs obeyed him reluctantly. He couldn't straighten, he hissed and wept as he had to move, clawed his way ahead and tried to get his trembling legs to shove him along. That side corner of the window, it wasn't far. Barely a body's length away from where he had fallen. But a body's length seemed forever, and when he reached it and drew his feet in to try to stand –

He had to warn Jored Gaidin, somehow. And he did the easiest thing he could think of. Helped by the wall he forced himself up. A new inferno of pain wrenched through his belly as he straightened, and shoved a cry over his lips. Helpless he folded double again – but it didn't matter. With his arms over his face he toppled in through the window.

The glass shattered around him, and as his body fell into the store, his mind fell into complete blackness.

But the last, grateful thought in his head was that Jored Gaidin had been warned, and he had done all he could.

Light, that had to be enough.

* * *

_Author's Note:_

No, he's not dead yet. This is going to be a three-piece story, and the good thing about fantasy is that you can half-kill a character and still have them recover.

But I'm going to be mean, this time, and demand a couple of decent reviews before I post the next part. I know how many of you have "Warder tales" on your Favourite Story list, or even on your Story Alert list, and how many of you have added it to both lists without giving me a single review. Tsk, tsk. In my world, dropping a note after you read something is just common courtsey. Like replying when spoken in the real world.

So be a pal and tell me what you think. By "decent review" I mean a review that contains one good thing, and one bad thing about this chapter. Not too difficult, is it?

And then I'll post the next chapter when I'm happy.


	19. Recruit: Part 2: Foe

**Recruit**

_Part 2. Foe_

Voices.

"I think I can keep him alive until we reach help. I hope so. That's all I can do."

"Then do it."

- - -

"Huianda, Huianda. I must say I'm surprised. She wasn't strong enough in the Power to rank very high, I never thought she'd be the one to take the bait of that trap. It was supposed to catch something much bigger. And she was too young to have known Talanee…"

- - -

Tear. He was back in Tear.

For that must surely be the sea, rocking him. An odd metallic taste in his mouth, his mind adrift. He could almost hear the gulls calling, the fishermen bellowing. The clatter of his home port. Home. His mother. Rocking him in her arms, singing, singing in a droning buzz akin to the murmur of water masses foaming against cliffs, not far away.

Rocking. Jarring. His thoughts drifted, and dissolved, and again there was nothing.

- - -

"Sarnon. You were waiting for us?"

"I have an impatient Aes Sedai up there wanting a report… she thought it less conspicuous to let me walk out of the barracks than to come down herself."

"A shame. We need her."

"You're hurt?"

"No, but…"

Something moved him. He rested against warmth, enveloped like a child in his parent's arms, shielded by a cocoon… the edge of the cocoon was folded away and chill air landed like a blow over his face, his chest. Light, his _chest_.

He blinked is eyes open, and had a vague impression of a silver-haired old man staring down at him, then the face was gone as his eyelids fell heavily shut.

"Light! Light and all creation, what's _happened_?"

"We're hoping he can tell us when he's Healed," said a smooth woman's voice, and the cocoon was resealed about him. "Bring Sitter Talanee, if you would be so kind, Sarnon Gaidin. Quickly."

"There's no need. She's already coming."

- - -

"A boy. He's just a boy. Who would do such a thing? He's a bloody _boy_."

"Easy, Jored."

Sath managed to open his eyes again. He was spread over someone's lap, and that person was sitting. A man, vaguely familiar.

Another shape hovered over them, leaned in to press lips against the man's forehead.

"You're tired," said the man with sudden concern, his voice pitched low to reach just the woman.

"I'm tired of these bloody games," she whispered in return. "I wish Yamela was here."

"You should rest. You haven't slept enough."

"I never sleep enough, according to you. But –"

"Talanee's here," announced a third voice from further away.

The two who had leaned over Sath pulled apart, and another shape appeared. Tall and elegant with a bob of black hair and jewels gleaming about her neck. Again he was sure he could hear gulls, smell the sea that had been rocking him. Metal and salt in his mouth. _Home_.

"Mother?" murmured Sath.

"No, child," came the terse reply, and the face that cleared to his vision was not his mother's. "I'm afraid not." She reached to touch him, and he felt as if he'd been dunked in ice. Again everything went dark.

- - -

"I'm telling you, Jored Gaidin, that I've done what I can. It's up to the boy to be strong enough to pull through. Whatever _happened_ to him? Here I come running down expecting to see you or Jahra hurt, Sarnon was so shocked, and instead you bring me a boy."

"His name's Sathamon. _Sath_. He's a Warder trainee. Recruit."

"I _know_ that, Gaidin. But Light and all illuminated things, whatever possessed you to bring him into _this_?"

"We didn't bring him," said another woman's voice, cool but firm. "I'd finished with Huianda, when he fell in through the window."

"So a boy appears from nowhere and falls in through a window with a _stab wound in his chest_?"

"Apparently there was someone else outside the house, if we don't assume he stabbed himself."

"Don't get smart with me, Jored Gaidin. Didn't you by any chance _hear_ them?"

"I'm sixty-three years old, Sitter. My eyesight is poor in darkness and my hearing isn't what it used to be."

"Don't be silly, Jored, there's nothing –"

"Let's not ignore facts, Jahra. I'm growing old. It's no wonder if I begin to miss things."

"Well, I'm about to hit eighty," said another male voice with wry amusement. "I can hardly tell the difference between a cow and a barn in darkness any more. I'm lucky I didn't trip over my own feet and break my neck crossing the bloody practice yard."

"_Enough_ of your self-pity, Sarnon, I won't have it. I keep a good eye on anything that might ail you, and I know that you're in _prime_ shape for your years."

"As you say, Talanee Sedai."

"Back to the matter at hand –"

"He's waking up," said Jored softly. For it was Jored Gaidin who held him.

Sath took a moment to take in where he was. Shakily he tried to extract himself from the folds of cloak wrapped about him… Jored helped him to sit down for himself on the bench beside him, and gratefully Sath realised there was a table in front of him where he could rest his arms for balance. They were at the farthest table in that small thicket of trees at the edge of the practice yard, hidden from view by the night and the trees.

"Are you alright, boy?" came the brisk tones of the Yellow who leaned towards him. She cupped his chin in her hand to study his face. He knew her face, but what was the name he had just heard..? _Talanee_. That was it. and she was a Sitter in the Hall.

"Yes, Sitter," he replied. "Just… dizzy." He'd been Healed, he supposed. He'd been Healed before, and he recognized the feeling. Hunger burned in his belly in place of the wound, but nearly as bad, and he was… very tired. More than a night's lost sleep could account for.

"Do you remember what happened, Sath?" asked Jahra gently. "At the store?"

Sath had a vague impression of a darkened alley, and his friend Larm coming at him with that knife. And that Aes Sedai… it had all tangled itself into a hopeless jumble in his mind. His strongest impression was of terrified confusion.

He met Jored's eyes. Jored always told him to remember things. Suddenly it came to him like a trained litany. "She was medium height, not quite slender, cloaked, her hood up so I never saw her face. She wore slippers and a dress, silk, though I couldn't make out the colour. And she was mean. I'm sorry, that's all I could tell."

The four adults exchanged looks. "Tell of what, lad?" Jored asked finally.

"The Aes Sedai who came with Huianda Sedai. There were two of them. We… followed them." He blushed.

"But what in the name of the Light were you doing out of bed to begin with, boy?" Talanee snapped. "Out of bed, out of grounds, and following Aes Sedai through the night?"

Her silver-haired old Warder – Sarnon Gaidin – gave a small cough, and she paused to look at him.

"Well," he said, and shared a look with Jored, "he's a recruit. We don't exactly _encourage_ them to go out at night, but we don't _discourage_ it either. We catch them now and again to make sure they keep on their toes, but… we don't mind a bit of initiative in a boy."

"So you let them sneak about as they please? No wonder the _discipline_ among Warders is failing," iced Talanee.

"Not as they _please_, Talanee Sedai," Jored corrected mildly. "But there's no actual rule against it. The only rule, and that an unspoken rule, is against being _caught_. We punish them if they get into any trouble while out, but as long as they don't cause too much mischief we leave them at it."

"But he was _out of Tower grounds_," Talanee reminded them.

Jored and Sarnon exchanged a second look. "Those vines are still there, over the western wall, aren't they?" Sarnon asked.

"Yes, I believe so. And besides, Jahra arranged a distraction for the guard at the practice yard gate tonight."

"You arranged a _what_?" Talanee asked, somehow compressing all the fury of a roar into a cool, four-word sentence.

"One of the Novices, Pipette," Jahra explained off-handedly. "She'll never channel strong enough to light a candle, the poor thing, but she's fallen head over heels in love with one of the guardsmen. I spoke to Dahlan. Apparently it's a promising youth. So as the Tower will soon put her out anyway, I thought a bit of matchmaking wouldn't do any harm."

"You're a romantic at heart," murmured Jored, touching her hand… and Sath felt abashed for seeing it, even though he wasn't certain why. It was only a touch, after all. Only a touch, but somehow more familiar than was proper, even for a Warder to his Aes Sedai..

"You didn't realise?" Jahra smiled back at her Warder.

"Which means that there's been free passage through one of the Tower's gates all night, and we'll never know who this woman who came with Huianda was. I agree with you, Jahra. It can't have been Huianda who took the bait. She must have been a lure."

"Her name was Layette," Sath remembered suddenly. Then blushed ferociously as he realised… "Layette _Sedai_, I mean. We heard them speak. Layette Sedai sent Huianda Sedai in, and Huianda Sedai didn't seem too pleased about it."

"Who is this _we_ you speak of, lad?" Talanee asked.

Sath felt as if he hurt all over. He swallowed, darted a glance at Jored, and then set a hand to his stomach. He could still feel the knife. "My friend… my friend Larm."

"One of the other boys," Jored clarified. "Very promising. _Brilliant_ with the sword."

"Is he the one who earned his second stripe so early?"

Jored nodded, and Sarnon gave an approving little whistle.

"What happened to this Larm?" Talanee demanded. "Did he run away?"

"No," Sath breathed. His throat had at once constricted, and his voice diminished to an airy rasp. There were tears in his eyes. Bloody Larm. He opened his mouth several times but couldn't make himself speak.

"Is he dead?" Sarnon asked softly. "Who killed him?"

"He stabbed me," Sath managed finally, all the air coming out of him in a woosh, and the tears welling at once down his cheeks. "Layette Sedai told him to, and he turned and _stabbed_ me."

"Light and all things illuminated," murmured Talanee.

"He's a bit young to be a Darkfriend…"

"Larm isn't a Darkfriend!" Sath protested fiercely. "He can't be! He –" Suddenly his own shrill and rising voice was cut off by Jored's hand firm over his mouth. He quieted, tried to breathe, but all he could manage was a hitching sob. Jored drew him in to his side and he leaned into the one-arm embrace. The Warder let go of his face.

"Listen very closely, lad," Jored said softly. "Layette Sedai and Huianda Sedai are both of what we call the Black Ajah. They serve the Dark One. And if your friend so easily turned on you when Layette Sedai asked it, it stands to reason that either she somehow compelled him, or he was a Darkfriend, and he knew what she was."

"He was terrified of her," Sath whispered. "His face was all white."

"So likely he knew. I'm sorry, lad."

"You're not helping the boy by telling him any of this," Talanee clipped. "Likely you'll give _him_ nightmares, and give _us_ a flapping tongue to worry about. He's seen and understood all too much already."

"I'll vouch for Sath, Sitter Talanee," Jored retorted calmly. "His tongue doesn't flap much, and he's a bright lad. Besides, after tonight, I think he has a right to know."

"What happened to Layette Sedai and Larm?" Jahra asked.

"Layette Sedai said they were going into the house. They… she said she'd spin shadows around them so they wouldn't be seen, and they'd go into the house. I thought I should _warn_ you…"

"So you fell through the window." Jored chuckled. "Well, you certainly startled us, and you must have startled Layette Sedai too. We never saw her. All we had to go on was a bleeding little boy."

"He likely saved your lives," Sarnon said. "Layette Sedai had planned to surprise you, and when you were already alert she decided the risk wasn't worth it."

"Talanee," Jahra said, looking to the Yellow sister, who had sat herself gracefully down on a bench opposite Sath. "Could it be Layette?"

"It well could; she was Accepted when I was a Novice," Talanee reasoned grimly, though Sath couldn't follow the reasoning at all. "But that's another matter. We need to get the boy back to his dorm. That is, if we shouldn't ferret him away at once. Back home. Where are you from, child?"

"No!" Sath protested. "I don't want to go home."

Talanee's cool disapproval at his outburst made him shrink down, but he disentangled himself from Jored's supporting arm and made himself meet the Aes Sedai's eyes. "I mean, Talanee Sedai, that if you send me home there'll be questions and my parents will wonder why and I can't lie to them, can I? And everyone here will wonder where I've gone and they'll contact my parents…"

"He _is_ a bright boy," murmured Sarnon, his eyebrows raised.

"But if you stay here," Talanee crisped, "you must never speak of this to anyone. Do you understand? If the Black Ajah catches wind, they'll want you _dead_. And worse; they'll pull _our_ names out of you, and they'll want _us_ dead, too. I don't want a boy of ten running about with –"

"Begging your pardon, Sitter, but I'm almost _eleven_," Sath interrupted.

"Manners, lad," chided Jored.

Talanee went on in the exact same brisk tones. "I don't care if you're almost eighteen. You'd still be a boy with a loose tongue."

"I said I'd vouch for the lad, Talanee Sedai," Jored reminded her.

"In that case," Jahra murmured, facing Talanee, "the matter is settled."

The two Aes Sedai stared for an endless moment at one another. Sath had the impression that for Jahra to speak against the Yellow Sitter was far from _appropriate_, but neither was it very unusual. Jahra at least seemed perfectly at ease in the matter, and Talanee's expression was one of patient disapproval. The Warders, however, hovered as if ready to any moment seize their respective Aes Sedai – and _run_.

For his part, Sath could find nothing more constructive to do than just bite his lower lip and wait. Then hunger rumbled in his belly, loud enough for every eye to turn to him. He blushed.

"Soon the matter will be moot," Talanee said, "since I'll find Layette this very night."

"Alone?"

"_You_ are going to bed, Jahra. You're tired, and you've done enough for one night. But no. I believe I shall recruit our Red. Then, once we have Layette, none of the Black will know of the boy. At least not," she sent a harsh look Sath's way, "as long as he keeps his peace."

"Sitter," Sath said and saluted her, "I swear by the Light and my hope of salvation that I'll never give a word of it to any living soul aside from the four of you. I'll lie till my teeth turn blue."

Talanee scoffed. "Not telling, lad, isn't always about _lying_. In fact, lies can only hurt if you're caught in them. _Not telling_ is about making people draw their own conclusions so you don't have to lie. And it isn't an art you learn _overnight_. But I'll trust your good intentions, if not your judgement. Try not to disappoint me."

Talanee turned and swept away into the darkness, with Sarnon close at her heels.

Jored gave Sath a nudge. "Come on," he said. "We'll get you some bread from the kitchen, and then your bed. You still have lessons tomorrow." He paused, as if a thought just struck him; "It would have been preferable if you could have stayed in bed for a couple of days, but I suppose that'll just raise suspicions. Make certain you eat as much as you can and try to take it easy."

"Jored Gaidin," Sath said, "what happened to Larm?"

Jored and his Aes Sedai both looked down at him with perfectly blank expressions. "I suspect," Jored said, "that we'll find out once Talanee Sedai finds Layette Sedai."

- - -

Sath slowly woke as Giller rattled their two-bunk bed. "Come on, up, time to eat. Just because you were out last night doesn't mean you can sleep all day!"

"Where's Larm?" Keron asked. "He's not back yet. What were you two up to?"

Sath sat himself on the edge of his bunk and looked about himself in a daze. He felt his chest and thought dizzily for a moment that it should have been bleeding, but of course it was not, and the tunic he had worn the night before he had stashed into a fireplace and piled more wood atop it. By now, it should be ash and nothing more. He was ravenously hungry and tired like he'd never slept a day in his life, and the world about him lacked colour. He felt numb.

"What's the matter with you?" Giller asked. "Aren't you awake yet? Need to be dunked in the water barrel?"

Sath shook himself. He forced himself to leap down from his bed and to the floor, and fought the dizziness as he landed. His body craved nourishment; it was as if even his _toes_ were telling him that he was hungry. "Nah," he heard his own voice say. "I'm… awake. I don't know where Larm's off to. We split up trying to get back in. Perhaps he's on a balancing pole out in the practice yard already."

To the jovial jokes of the others about Larm getting himself caught, Sath washed, dressed, and was jostled along to the mess hall. He ate in a frenzy, until Huro gave him a playful shove and asked when he'd begun trying to out-eat Giller. Sath just shrugged and took another serving to gulp down.

If not for his Healing and subsequent hunger, he wouldn't have been able to manage a single bite. To have no Larm nearby, no steady stream of tall tales and jokes, was both a curse and a blessing. The thought that if he looked over his shoulder he might catch sight of his… _former_ friend... made him shudder and fix his eyes firmly on his food, but the lack of his _friend_ twisted as bad in his chest as that knife ever had. The others still speculated that Larm was out on a balance pole, and would greet them with a grin and a wave when they emerged. Sath didn't know if he should be fearful or furious, and the resulting confusion, on top of his tiredness and the hunger-induced dizziness, near brought tears to his eyes.

On the inside he didn't know if he most wanted to sick up, to curl up beneath the table and sleep, or to weep until somehow the pain and horror and confusion of it all washed clear. But all he did was eat, compulsively, mechanically, and in short order he found himself lined up with the others in the practice yard, awaiting the arrival of the day's drill master.

The sun rose over the edge of the practice yard's wall, but no drill master appeared. The boys began to fidget. Other groups of recruits, similarly lined up, began to whisper. The Warders shrugged the matter aside and began their own practices without the Master At Arms.

Finally, in force, Kentrin and the day's drill masters came out of the barracks, every face grim. Kentrin bellowed an order to the assembled Warders and they all lined up.

"We begin today in grief," Kentrin boomed when everyone had settled. Then he waited a moment, making absolutely certain he had everyone's full attention. The drill masters stood behind him, lined up just as if they too had been recruits. "During the night one of our number left us. Sarnon Comaar died in his sleep. We remember him."

The Warders saluted in unison.

"For one of us the long watch has ended. We thank him for his dedication."

The Warders saluted again. A few of the older recruits copied the gesture, while the younger ones only watched, squirming, and unsure of what to do. Likely they had all known Sarnon, by face if not by name; Talanee Sedai sometimes oversaw their drills, a habit she must have kept from before she became a Sitter, and had likely Healed half of them.

Sath stood rigid where he was, well aware that he had seen Sarnon only hours before. Knowing where Talanee and Sarnon had last headed off to, he couldn't believe that the old Warder had died in his sleep. Which meant they had likely found Layette Sedai. And something had gone wrong.

But if Talanee also had been killed, the ceremony now would have been different.

"Sarnon Comaar, brother of battle, let your spirit lay aside its sword. Rest easy, for we who remain will keep the watch. Seek shelter in the Creator's Hand, until the Wheel has turned and you are reborn to us. Brother of battle, we thank you, we remember you, and by the grace of the Light, we shall yet face the Darkness together, so that no one need evermore fear the Shadow."

The Warders saluted a third time. Most of the recruits, Sath included, joined in the gesture. Then the Master At Arms nodded at the drill masters, and they broke up their formation and went to their respective groups.

Kentrin himself approached Sath's group. He looked them over, and at once his eyes narrowed. "Where is recruit Larm?"

No one answered him. Sath tried to look blank. Keron and Giller glanced at him.

Kentrin, no fool, caught their glances. "Giller?"

"Larm snuck out last night, Master Kentrin," Giller admitted. "He hasn't come back."

"_Keron_?" Kentrin said, and stepped right up to the boy, looming over him. "Stop squirming. What do you know?"

Keron shot Sath an excusing glance. "I… I saw him sneak out, Master Kentrin."

"And Sath was with him, wasn't he?" Kentrin said, without taking his eyes off Keron.

Keron, faced with the prospect of telling the truth or an outright lie, fell back on his honest nature. "Yes, Master Kentrin," he admitted unhappily.

Kentrin took two quick steps right to the side, and placed him similarly in front of Sath. "What were the two of you up to? From the start, to the end, and don't leave anything out. I suppose you climbed out your window..?"

"We did, Master Kentrin," Sath admitted, doing his best to meet the Master At Arm's eyes. There was no sign now of the good-natured instructor from the evening before. This Kentrin was unbreakable and unbending, a big man drawing advantage of every inch, and when he loomed, Sath felt… _small_. "We snuck out through the practice yard gate while the guard was, ehrm, not watching. We went to buy chocolates."

"_Chocolates_?"

"Yes, Master Kentrin. Larm had gotten a silver from his pa because he'd earned his second stripe, and he knew chocolate factories were always busy during the night to prepare for the day, so we went and bought some. Then we returned. We returned, and at the gate… at the… no. We… we just split up on the way home. I d-don't know what h-happened to him." To his own ears, Sath's voice was weak. He stood with his fists clenched to keep them from shaking, and tried without much success to convince himself that Kentrin couldn't read thoughts.

Kentrin eyed him up and down with a huff of disapproval, and said: "Are you in control enough of yourself for a balancing stance, lad, or will you fall flat on your face before you even begin? Because I'll give you a choice. You can begin now, or I can give you time to stop shaking."

Sath drew air. "I'm… I'm in control of myself, Master Kentrin."

"Swan Rising For Flight," Kentrin said. "I'll tell you when you're done."

Sath saluted, and jogged on leaden legs off to the nearest balancing pole. He began to climb up, but his usually so certain feet slipped and he tumbled down. He only reached the top on the third attempt, and had to spend the longest while seeking his balance before he dared raise his arms and left foot and face into Swan Rising For Flight.

It wasn't a difficult posture, but right then nothing seemed to be working. His limbs just didn't quite go where he wanted them to. His body felt like it belonged to someone else, someone far away. And with nothing to do but stand there with his eyes raised to a changeless grey sky, his thoughts spun him back to the night before, and all those things he would rather have forgotten, things he should have done, or should have done differently, and all that remained unresolved or unknown to him. Larm, Layette Sedai and Talanee Sedai… Jahra Sedai and Jored Gaidin… the rest of the Black Ajah. How to convince Master Kentrin that he was innocent and uninvolved when really he stood neck-deep in it? Memories tangled with fears until he felt nauseous, and before long tears rolled down his cheeks. Fat, glistening drops of hopelessness. He couldn't help it. He still couldn't decide if he should be more afraid, or more outraged. Larm, his friend, had… it was too impossible to comprehend. And here he was being _punished_ for it.

He was glad for the distance to the others, so they wouldn't see him weep.

When his limbs began to ache he carefully switched foot, from a right-side Swan to a left. He shouldn't have done it without permission, but it did offer some relief. He focused on his breathing, and reached for the _ko'di_. They'd practiced that since earning their first stripe, but he'd never quite managed to hold on to it, which didn't stop him from trying. Everyone said that the _ko'di_ could block out thoughts and emotions, and he needed that very badly. Before he began sobbing in earnest, lost his balance, and fell.

Larm, and that knife, and Larm was not back. The Black Ajah. Darkfriends. And _hunger_, torturing his innards. He lost the Swan again, and had to catch his balance and reassume it. He moved slowly, deliberately, willing limb after limb into place and finally raising his face. He closed his eyes. He was a Swan, free and proud, about to leave the water. He was easy elegance, and his mind was blank, empty, emotionless, striving into the sky on his powerful wings. He _willed_ it… but at the first stray thought all his efforts shattered.

Halfway through the morning he fell for the first time, woozy from hunger and more nauseous for every moment without news of Larm, and Layette Sedai. Gingerly he picked himself up and climbed back atop the pole, reassumed the pose.

He had to battle down the urge to tell Kentrin the truth and hope the Master At Arms would protect him. It was a childish urge, he told himself. How could he know Kentrin wasn't another 'special friend'?

He oughtn't say anything of Layette or Huianda Sedai, or that store, or Jored Gaidin and Jahra Sedai. He _couldn't_ say that Larm simply turned about and tried to stab him, no one would believe that. He still didn't quite believe it himself. And if he told of that, they would ask who had Healed him, and he couldn't speak of Jahra Sedai and Talanee Sedai either.

And he didn't want the Black Ajah to find him. He hoped fervently that Talanee Sedai had found Layette Sedai before she told anyone of him. He hoped it until it was a knot of pain in his chest that made it difficult to breathe.

Which left only Larm. The thought jarred him and he nearly fell a second time. What if Larm knew some other Aes Sedai who was also Black and told her everything? What of all those 'special friends'… Darkfriends, all of them? What of them? What if he managed to tell one of them, and…

Had Larm told Layette Sedai that it was Jahra Sedai and Jored Gaidin in that shop, or had Layette Sedai never found that out?

His limbs ached. He knew that he needed to _breathe_, his muscles needed air to work. But suddenly it was all he could do not to sob. The tears had stopped, but that knot of pain and fear in his chest grew only tighter, as did his throat, and his hunger twisted and seemed to spread out into his limbs, adding weakness to ache where it touched.

In short order Sath had fallen two more times, but each time he picked himself doggedly up and climbed back onto his balancing pole. No one had come to address him, and if any of the drill masters was secretly keeping an eye on him, he didn't know it. He stood swaying and wondering bitterly when he would fall the next time when the clamour of practice ended, and he heard the jostle as the others left for their midday meal.

Light, but he was hungry. He was hungry enough to consider _eating_ the bloody balancing pole. Or at least his boots.

Master At Arms Kentrin approached him. It was odd to look down upon him; Kentrin's hard eyes were now at the level of Sath's waist. "If I thought you'd told me everything, young Sathamon," he said lowly, "I'd tell you to come down and rejoin your group. But I believe you're hiding something from me. Am I wrong?"

Sath closed his eyes. The question had set him swaying wildly again. With an effort he caught his balance and returned to the Swan. "No, Master Kentrin," he said. Talanee Sedai had said not to lie, and he wasn't sure he _could_ lie to the Master At Arms. But neither could he tell much. Burn him, but he couldn't.

Kentrin nodded. "Then you may stay up there until you decide to tell me. Once you do, come down, and come to find me. Understood?"

"Yes, Master Kentrin."

Thus he remained on his balance pole, doing his best to keep his pose, to breathe, to force his aching muscles into obedience. He didn't fall again, but neither did he stop swaying, and he must have spent more time trying to keep his balance than he did posing in the Swan. Thirst burned in his throat, and hunger gnawed more and more urgently, again felt all the way out in his fingers and toes and weakening every joint, every limb. He should be _eating_ after his Healing, but he couldn't tell Master Kentrin that, and he couldn't simply leave the balancing pole. The pole wasn't much of a punishment, but leaving it without permission was a sure way to earn something much worse. One of the older recruits had been assigned to stand overnight, and had left when he thought no one knew to drink water from the horses' watering trough. He'd been caught and summarily flogged, then put back on his pole.

The flogging wouldn't be the worst of it. The shame would be the worst of it. To take a punishment well was a badge of pride, but to shirk from it… Sath couldn't stand the shame. He didn't want the other boys looking down on him… yes, the shame would be worse than the flogging. So Sath told himself, although the thought of pain, of someone striking across his back until the skin broke and blood flowed… if he was honest with himself, that kept him up more than did any resolution to ignore aches and fears and hunger.

Surely they wouldn't flog him. He was not even eleven years old, just ten, just a boy. Surely, if…

His thoughts grew more and more disarrayed. The others returned for afternoon practice. Sath licked his dried lips. He had switched back to a right-side Swan, but it didn't help, he couldn't hold it more than moments. He felt dizzy, his head drooping. Not long after the others had resumed their practice, Sathamon Mashuna's body gave way beneath him and he was unconscious before he hit the ground.

* * *

_Author's Note;_

There, enjoy. Next part once I've had enough comments on this one. The next one needs a tad of tinkering still.

Oh, and someone said the links in a previous chapter don't work, so try this one instead (just take out the spaces I've added):

http : // stormfairy. livejournal. com / 127595. html# cutid1


	20. Recruit: Part 3: Fear

**Recruit**

_Part 3. Fears_

"You have some explaining to do, Sath."

Sath's eyes blinked open. He was on his side on the pallet in the Master At Arm's study, and the Master At Arms sat watching him. Sath sat up, oddly self-conscious about lying down in front of his instructor.

"I had Marlisle Sedai look you over, and asked her to Heal your bruises," Kentrin reached behind him, taking hold of a tray, and placed it over Sath's lap.

Sath, still feeling very much bruised, nonetheless forgot every ache when saw bread and cheese and sliced ham, and began to eat before he remembered that perhaps he ought to have asked permission… hesitantly, with his mouth and hands stuffed with food, he looked over at Kentrin.

"Eat," Kentrin told him. "Marlisle Sedai refused to Heal anything. She told me that you were weak as a newborn lamb and she gave me quite the telling-to for placing you on that pole. But when I asked how I should have known, she was surprised, and said that you bore traces of recent Healing, from something bad, and if a boy was badly wounded and Healed at practice she expected me to remember it and make sure the lad was properly fed and kept calm until he had recovered. Which I fully agree with. But as I distinctly remember having no serious accidents yesterday evening, I can't figure out when you were hurt and Healed. So perhaps you would like to tell me." His voice, kindly up until that point, had turned hard again.

Sath swallowed the ham in his mouth. He looked at Kentrin and felt distinctly ill. He was beginning to recognize this type of ill; it crawled out of worry to further worry him. "No, Master Kentrin."

Kentrin handed him a cup of luke-warm tea. It was weak but generously sweetened with honey, and Sath emptied the cup in a couple of greedy gulps.

"If I put you back on that pole again today, Marlisle Sedai will cut my hide off in strips, then have me weave them into a rope and _hang_ myself with it," Kentrin said dryly. "So I won't. And I won't flog you for disobedience either, not until Marlisle Sedai says you're well recovered. You've been given a respite. But in three or four days, lad, Marlisle Sedai will hand you back fully into my care, and I_ will not_ tolerate lies and hidden truths. Something happened last night, and you _will_ tell me of it."

Sath bent over his food and – and found that it was all gone. He looked up at the Master At Arms again, willing his gaze to stay steady. "I – I can't, Master Kentrin."

"You would rather face a flogging?" Kentrin asked him steadily.

Sath could already feel the pain of the lashes, and it made him near sick with apprehension, but… he nodded before he could dwell upon it.

"We found Larm," Kentrin said.

All colour left Sath's face. Trembling, he reached for another piece of bread, and… and remembered that the tray was empty. He groped about the empty plate, finally snatching some crumbs and popping them into his mouth to hide his foolishness.

Wordlessly Kentrin handed him another loaf from his desk and Sath dug in, while Kentrin said; "He's dead. He'd had his own knife shoved in between his eyes."

An effort of will and Sath continued chewing, but as he swallowed it nearly caught in his throat. For a moment his eyes bulged before the bread continued downward and his throat eased.

"Your friend was murdered last night, Sath. And you will still tell me nothing?"

At that moment the door burst open and in stormed Marlisle, with Talanee in tow.

"If you've been pestering the lad, Master Kentrin, I'll put _you_ on a balancing pole," Marlisle said in a tone that left no room for doubt. "He needs food and rest and you're not to trouble his mind with either accusations, threats, or bad news. Am I _clear_?"

Kentrin bowed and backed away from Sath's side. Sath made to rise and bow, too, but Marlisle gestured him back down. Just as well; his head swam just from having swung his legs over the pallet's side.

"Now then, lad, how are you feeling?" Marlisle took the chair Kentrin had vacated, and Talanee stood beside her, frowning down at Sath in a way that said nothing at all.

"Dizzy and still hungry, Marlisle Sedai," Sath replied truthfully.

"Master Kentrin, if you please, run to the kitchens and fetch more food. Something with meat in it. And fruits and vegetables, if there are any to be had."

The Master At Arms gave a start, and opened his mouth as if to protest, but after one look at Marlisle's coolly arched eyebrow he bowed and disappeared out the door.

"He's a good man," Talanee reminded the younger Aes Sedai. "Don't treat him like anything less."

"Yes, Sitter," Marlisle replied, but the glance she sent after Kentrin was nothing less than ferocious. "But he's muttered about having the boy flogged if he doesn't speak up, and I…"

"You told me. Don't fret, Marlisle, it's unbecoming. We shall deal with Master Kentrin, never fear."

Only then did Sath remember Sarnon; Talanee had lost her Warder this night. Her face was as before composed and cool, her posture still on the brink between pride and arrogance, but her usually brisk tones now rang hollow, and just like Sath himself had done the entire day, she seemed to be _swaying_.

Sath saluted her. "Sitter, I remember Sarnon Comaar. I am sorry for your loss."

"My Warder was well into eighty years," Talanee replied without even blinking. "I thank you for your condolences."

Sath wondered, a bit curiously, how she could look so calm. The loss of a Warder was supposed to reduce even the strongest Aes Sedai to tears. But even if Sath could see no great change in Talanee, Marlisle reached to take Talanee's hand, squeezing it once before Talanee withdrew it.

"I shall take a look at you, lad, if you don't mind," Talanee said, already reaching toward Sath.

Sath bowed his head and felt her light fingertips came to rest atop it.

"I believe you're right, Marlisle," Talanee said, "he's been Healed. In the chest. Neat work. Perhaps only a handful of sisters would be able to do that."

"A Yellow, then?"

"Likely, but not necessarily… both Osinrelle of the Red and young Pyva of the Blue are –"

The door opened and Kentrin came back in, followed by three maids carrying a loaded tray each. They set them down on Kentrin's desk and scurried out, and Kentrin bowed to Marlisle again. "Will this be to your satisfaction, Marlisle Sedai?"

Marlisle's nod was gracious. She herself lifted one of the trays from the table and onto Sath's lap. He began wolfing it down without waiting for permission; a big bowl of stew with bread on the side, and two large, apples, as fine and red as he had ever seen.

"Talanee Sedai agrees with my conclusion, Master Kentrin," Marlisle said conversationally. "The boy's been Healed. Has he said by whom?"

"No, and I don't think it's likely he will," the Master At Arms muttered. "I think he's protecting someone."

"I'll tell you this, Master Kentrin," Talanee crisped, and some of her brashness was returned to her voice, "if the boy hadn't been Healed yesterday, you'd likely have two dead recruits this morning. Whatever it was that hurt him, it did it badly. From the pattern of new tissues, I'd say he was stabbed in the chest."

"Who _stabs_ a ten-year-old boy?" Kentrin growled.

"Who sets one up for a _flogging_?" Marlisle retorted coolly.

"With all due respect, Marlise Sedai, that's different. A flogging is meant to discipline and in the long run strengthen. A stabbing can never be anything but an attempt to do harm, likely kill. And if I get my hands on whoever's been _stabbing_ my boys, I'll wring their necks, Light burn me if I don't." He glared down at Sath, his expression so vicious that Sath jerked back from it instinctively. "Are you protecting that bastard who attacked you and Larm, boy? If he's threatened you, then pay it no mind. I have close on seven hundred Warders in residence at the moment and a hundred recruits, of more or less ability, and not a one of them is going to let anyone hurt you."

"I'd think it equally likely he was protecting whoever Healed him," Talanee mused.

Sath was impressed at how straight her face was. If he hadn't _known_, he'd never have imagined.

"Why, Sitter, would he need to do _that_?" Kentrin muttered.

"An Aes Sedai doesn't always want her business known," Marlisle reminded him sharply, though her face brightened with sudden inspiration. "If there _was_ an Aes Sedai sneaking about in the night, she might well have taken pity on the boy but told him to keep her presence silent. And if so, we shouldn't force him to speak when he's under orders to hold his peace. We should commend him."

"_If_ that is so," Talanee crisped, casting a dubious glance at Sath.

"Well, boy?" Kentrin barked.

Sath considered. Talanee herself had opened this line of questioning. Therefore, she must mean… "Yes, Master Kentrin. I was told to hold my tongue by an Aes Sedai."

"And you didn't tell me earlier, because..?"

"I… Master Kentrin, I thought I'd better keep it _all_ to myself."

"Terribly irresponsible of her to Heal a boy and then tell no one," Talanee went on, now looking at Sath. "He might well have collapsed during practice today, from the exertion. She must have been well distracted. She ought to be given penance."

It was nearly an apology, Sath realised. An _apology_. From an Aes Sedai! From a bloody _Sitter_, to boot! He did his best not to blush, and was glad for the excuse to lean closer over his now nearly empty bowl of stew.

"Very well, let us put the matter of the Healing to the side," Kentrin said. "And focus on the stabbing. I want to know who, where, and why. Speak, lad."

But of course Sath could say nothing.

Kentrin began to loom again. "It's in your own best interest to _oblige_ me, boy."

"This reminds me more and more of an interrogation," Marlisle remarked.

"Perhaps it _should_ be an interrogation, considering that a boy's been killed, and another refuses to say a word. How do I know I don't have the culprit himself before me?"

"Don't make foolish assumptions," Marlisle chided him. "I saw the body. No lad of ten did that."

Kentrin nodded. "I know, Aes Sedai. But a lad of ten might have witnessed it, and if he refuses to speak of it…"

"I must still argue _against_ the use of flogging to draw words from him. He is in his own way an initiate of the Tower, and Tower Law clearly forbids the use of torture and torture-like procedures upon its initiates. Convince the lad as you must, punish him if you see fit, but don't threaten him with the use of violence when he chooses not to comply."

Kentrin chuckled. "Use of _violence_? That's all we do to the recruits, Aes Sedai. We're teaching them to fight, not to cite policy. If they don't learn, _pain_. If they don't obey, _pain_."

"And if, under this treatment, a boy should refuse to break?" Marlisle wondered in icy tones.

"Then we make certain to keep him," Kentrin replied. "I don't _break_ my boys, Aes Sedai. I build them up."

"You are aware, Master Kentrin," Talanee whispered, "that in the end, we will break them all? Either through our own demise, or… or when they…" Her perfect composure cracked. Her hand trembled as she raised and touched the corner of her eye. Then she studied the tear balanced on the tip of her finger. At once her expression distorted, her face dropped… before she raised it and was again in control of herself. She let her arms drop to her sides, not as much as a tense finger to be seen, and her eyes were steady when they turned to the Master At Arms.

Nevertheless, the Master At Arms looked at her with a tinge of pity. He saluted her with slow dignity. "Yes, Sitter," he said. "But burn me if I'll hand one over who'll break before his time."

"So you mean to say that a boy who breaks is of no use to you, and yet you plan to flog one until he breaks, just so you can figure out what some Aes Sedai has told him to keep quiet?" Talanee concluded.

"We don't know that –"

"Of course you don't know. But isn't it indication enough to stop inquiries when a Sitter visits you on the behalf of one boy? Marlisle's mothering of the recruits is well known, and that she should plead a Sitter to support her might be no surprise, but that one would actually take the time..? It is true that I _have_ been known to attend your practice sessions still, Master Kentrin, despite being raised Sitter, but have I ever before imposed myself upon the execution of your duties?" Her voice dropped. "Has _the_ _Hall_ ever before meddled in your treatment of your charges?"

Sath tried to decide whether that was an actual question or an actual threat, but Kentrin seemed to know instinctively. He saluted again, this time in a soldierly manner. "I see your point, Sitter. But, Sitter, that only explains the Healing –"

"You've had two recruits sneaking out together, Master Kentrin," Marlisle reminded him briskly. "If one boy was outright killed, and all we know of young Sathamon's wound is that it was bad, wouldn't it stand to reason that they were trying to kill him, too? Which leads to the conclusion that the Healing must have come quick enough after the fact, and thus that an Aes Sedai must have been present where and when the stabbing occurred. Which means that the entire matter was Aes Sedai business, and the boys were likely hurt because of some fit of bravery which made them throw themselves in harm's way."

Kentrin pondered this in silence, then turned to Sath; "Sath."

"Yes, Master Kentrin?"

"Would you say that you and young Larm managed to get in the way of Aes Sedai business?"

"I'd swear it on the Light, Master Kentrin, if that's all I needed to say," Sath told him, as steadily as he could. His belly, no longer cramped with hunger, now clenched for an entirely different reason. But he no longer felt so very ill.

The Master At Arms studied him for a long, agonising moment. "And could you truthfully claim that it was Aes Sedai business that got you and Larm hurt?"

"Yes, Master Kentrin, it – it was."

Master Kentrin let out air as if he'd been holding his breath.

"I believe that settles it," Talanee said briskly. "You'll leave the boy to his recovery and let his secrets stay his own."

"Yes, Sitter. But what shall I tell the others? I will not have the general opinion that I've grown too soft to squeeze the truth out of a boy when I need to."

"Then _lie_ about it, Master Kentrin," Talanee suggested without blinking. "Do it _convincingly_. Remember that not even other Aes Sedai meddle in Aes Sedai business, and you'll only get bruised if you find yourself caught between us."

"I… understand, Sitter." Kentrin shifted, very slightly, his posture going from subservient to inquisitive. He glanced at Sath, and Sath could see him weigh to let him stay against to send him out. The choice must have fallen on letting him stay, since the Master At Arms turned back to the two Yellows: "One more thing, Aes Sedai. The boy Larm. His knife was shoved in too far between his eyes. Half the blade came out the back of his head, and from the look of it I'd say it was all done in one stroke. A man would have to be impossibly strong to accomplish it. The only time I've seen anything like it was in the Blight, and it was a Myrddraal that'd done it, and that time the face had been smashed to fit the Myrddraal's fist around the knife's hilt. Not so now. Half the hilt has gone into the lad's head, but there's no sign of whatever hand held the thing. A clean stroke like that, and something must have _held_ it. The only thing I can figure, is that the knife was shoved in with the Power."

Talanee didn't shift, but Marlisle looked as if she'd been struck.

"I… I know you don't talk about it, Aes Sedai, but no one lives here all his life without hearing the rumours. I don't want to see how anything less than a Darkfriend would shove a blade through a boy's face, and…"

"If you are referring to the so called _Black Ajah_, Master Kentrin, you must know that you are out on very thin ice indeed," said Talanee in a voice cold enough to crack stones, while Marlisle gave a little squeak.

Master Kentrin took the hint and paused, but he was no coward. In another moment he stood straight. "Yes, Sitter. That is it precisely."

Talanee was a moderately tall woman, but Kentrin must have overreached her by a head and shoulders, if not more. Still, when the silk-clad woman stepped closer to him, no one could see anything but an Aes Sedai looming over a man and that man wavering. "If you have lived here all your life, Master Kentrin, you know better than to meddle in Aes Sedai business. And there is no business we appreciate meddling in _less_, than the business of the so-called Black Ajah."

"So you won't deny that it exists?" Kentrin pressed, somehow retaining the courage to speak.

"There are Darkfriends everywhere, Master Kentrin. And if there should be some even among the Aes Sedai, can you think of anyone other than Aes Sedai who might be able to handle them? What would you do, I wonder, if faced with a Black sister who wanted to hurt you? What good would your seven hundred Warders and hundred recruits do you _then_?"

"Not much. I suppose I would die with as much honour as I could manage, Sitter," Kentrin murmured.

Talanee smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. It was as hollow as her words had been when she first entered the room, and as terrible as her voice when she spoke of the Black Ajah. "Then thank the Light that I'll ask no such thing of you, Master Kentrin. You would be wise to keep your speculations to yourself. No Aes Sedai, Black or not, would look kindly upon such a line of inquiry."

"I… I understand and obey, Sitter."

"Good. Now step aside. I wish to check on the boy. Marlisle has, after all, begged the loan of my expertise."

The Master At Arms hastily bowed his way back from her, and Talanee approached Sath. She set her fingers to his head again. Sath wanted to ask her, in that moment, if Marlisle _knew_ – but one look at Marlisle's white face was enough to halt his question. No, the motherly Yellow knew nothing. That, or she was more in control of herself than even Talanee, but could _act_ terrified with the skill of one born for the stage. Which was unlikely.

So Sath said nothing, and Talanee's manner was only businesslike. She finally unbent, spoke her advice to Marlisle in a low voice, and with a last nod at Master Kentrin – who bowed deeply to her – she swept from the room.

Marlisle suddenly remembered what she was. She straightened the yellow shawl over her shoulders as if righting a piece of armour. "Take well care of the boy, Master Kentrin," she said. "Keep him fed and resting, and send me word at once if he begins to dwindle."

With also Marlisle gone from the room, the Master At Arms looked to Sath. "Well, Sathamon," he said softly, "I can't say I envy you. Ending up between squabbling sisters must be about as bad a stitch as a man can get. But if you're still intent on being a Warder, I suppose you'd get your share of it soon enough. Though after this, I wouldn't blame you if you wished to be sent home instead."

"I still want to be a Warder, Master Kentrin," Sath said truthfully. With an effort, he straightened his back. He knew that if he had said, "I want to go home," Master Kentrin would quietly have arranged the matter. But after the pain was gone, the hunger faded, his tiredness somewhat eased, he found that there was nothing he wanted more than to continue his training. Despite the Black Ajah.

For his own sake. For Larm, because in Sath's head, Larm had ended up no more than a Black sister's pawn, to be toyed with and discarded. For Larm, even if he had been… a Darkfriend. Even then, he had still been Sath's friend, and a good friend, and… and he just didn't want to remember Larm as a Darkfriend. Not even if it had been true.

Kentrin nodded quietly. "Back to your dorm, lad, and rest. I'll inform the mess hall that you're to be properly fed. Show up with your group at roll call, but don't partake in practice until the end of the week. Understood?"

"Yes, Master Kentrin."

- - -

Sath spent the rest of the day in a sort of daze, either fast asleep or awake and starving. He would eat – the mess hall's matron knew how to care for Healed young boys, and every time he woke there was another tray of food waiting for him, often still warm. The other boys came sneaking instead of rushing in at the end of the day and… someone must have told them not to wake him, but he woke anyway, and they were full of questions.

They had been told that Larm was dead. Each and every one of them was near taking oath to avenge the death, while Sath noted their enthusiasm with a detachment that surprised him. He recognized it as something he too would have felt, two days earlier, but now it only sounded young and foolish. None of them had ever faced a blade bared to truly harm them. None of them had ever been stabbed near to death.

Oh, they'd all been injured at practice, but being injured with an Aes Sedai no more than a cry for help away was one thing, and being mortally injured while alone in the dark something entirely different. Sath knew that, even if they didn't.

So when he said he'd been stabbed, and Healed, and he couldn't speak of it, they saw it as some great adventure and commended him and prodded for details and wanted to know how heroic he had been, or if Larm had been heroic, and if they had saved someone. Sath was glad he could say that he had been commanded by an Aes Sedai not to speak of it. He didn't at all feel like telling them how he'd been too frightened to think, and had ended up following the Routine of Red Autumn like a mindless puppet, and how when the knife struck home he had wanted only to cry for his mother.

He didn't at all want to say that it was Larm who stabbed him. Not while the others were concocting one fanciful tale after another of Larm, who with his two stripes of swordsmanship had been something of the group's hero, had put up a glorious fight despite his youth and boy's small build, enough to merit his unnecessarily brutal death.

He didn't want to speak of Layette Sedai, the Black Ajah, and Larm being a Darkfriend. He still found that hard to believe.

It was easier to believe the picture Giller and the others made up. But Sath didn't have the luxury of making up something that pleased him. He envied them that. He envied them their… innocence. He felt _apart_ from them, and it saddened him.

So he finally pleaded tiredness, ate another bowl of steaming fish soup with a generous supply of buttered bread, and went to sleep. The others respectfully hushed each other and continued about their evening business quietly to let him sleep.

- - -

For breakfast he outdid Giller again, much to everyone's amusement, and as soon as roll call was done and he was dismissed he returned to the mess hall for an extra bowl of porridge. The mess hall was near empty, but a lone Warder sat at a table, finishing his morning tea and reading a heavy tome of a book.

It was Jored Gaidin. Sath took his bowl of porridge, and went to bow and wait to be acknowledged.

"Sit, boy," Jored said, almost at once.

Sath sat himself down on the opposite side of Jored, glancing into the tome as he set his bowl before himself and began to eat. The tome held maps. Drawn representations of old campaigns.

"Which campaign is this?" Jored asked, gesturing over the map.

"Something to do with Arthur Hawkwing, Gaidin," Sath said. "There," he pointed at one of the marked troop movements. "That's the symbol of his personal guard. It has to be Hawkwing."

"Very good," Jored murmured. Then he carefully closed the tome and looked up. "I suppose you have a question for me."

"Yes, Gaidin." Sath considered, wondering how to phrase the thoughts in his head. Jored waited patiently. "How… how do you know if you're brave?"

Jored blinked. Sath waited, and tried not to squirm. He knew it was an odd question. But with recent events in mind… he had to ask.

"Well," said Jored slowly. "Perhaps someone else will give you another view, but this is mine. If you're so afraid you'd like nothing more than to curl into a ball and weep, but you're still functioning, then you're brave."

Sath's heart sank. "What do you mean?"

Jored studied him, his expression patient and understanding. His voice came out gentle. "Everyone's afraid, lad. When I was young, I thought my fear meant that I wasn't brave. Every time I stumbled or hesitated or froze up I thought I was a coward. But that's not what it means. It just means you're human. What matters isn't what you feel, but what you do. Being brave is about being rattled to your bones and still doing your job. You don't know if you're brave or not until you've faced your fear and mastered it, and the next time you'll have to start over, and master your fear anew."

"It never gets easier?"

Jored smiled. "Well, perhaps a bit easier." He reached over the table and out a hand on Sath's shoulder, clasping it for a moment before he let go. His voice sank. "You were terrified, weren't you? You thought you were going to die, and you couldn't move, and you were convinced that if you did, she would come back and finish you."

Sath nodded glumly. He couldn't meet Jored's eyes.

"But despite this, and despite your wound, you somehow managed to climb to your feet and shatter that window. Lad, I saw the blood. I didn't know a boy had that much blood in him. But you were _still moving_. You were hurt and afraid, and you still went on. That's the fighting spirit, and that's all that matters. You don't always win, and you don't always fight gallantly, but what matters is that you never give up."

Sath nodded glumly again, thankful that no one but he had heard the thoughts circling his mind at that moment. When he'd been on the ground. All he'd wanted was his mother, and for the pain to vanish. He hadn't had a thought of fighting back, or resisting. He'd just wanted it all to go away.

"Lad, look at me."

Sath looked.

"The boy who shattered that window did more than anyone could have expected of him. Certainly Layette Sedai didn't expect it. So I'm telling you, lad, that you were brave. I'm telling you that you were strong. Heard me?"

"I heard you, Jored Gaidin."

"Good." Jored nodded slowly. "Further questions?"

"Yes, Gaidin," Sath said timidly. "If I may be so bold… what are _you_ afraid of?"

Jored barked a sudden laugh. "Light, lad! I'd think it obvious. I'm Warder, and what scares me more than anything is the thought of my Aes Sedai dying. She's in here." He tapped his head. "And if she dies, the loss of her will tear my mind to shreds."

"And you don't want that?"

"No, lad, I don't want that. But it's not that I'm afraid for my sanity. I just don't want my Jahra hurt."

Sath decided on one more question. "So you're not afraid of dying?"

"I'm not too fond of the idea," Jored admitted. "But everyone dies. When your time comes, lad, make sure you die for something, or _someone_, who's worth it. For my part, if the Light lets me buy Jahra's safety with my life, I'll have no complaints. I just hope she'll have sense enough to bond another Warder when I'm gone. She needs one."

Sath did squirm, then, not sure how to take such talk. "What happened to Sarnon Gaidin? Did he… did he die well?"

Jored sighed. "No Warder lives to Sarnon's age without knowing his business. I can't imagine he didn't die well, but I wasn't there. I didn't see it. I know he was badly hurt, and when Talanee Sedai tried to Heal him, he died. Whatever the Aes Sedai say, we _do_ grow old, and with old age we grow weaker. It takes a man in his prime to survive a complicated Healing, and Sarnon… Sarnon was in excellent shape for a man of eighty, but he wasn't in his prime. His body Healed, but the process drained him, so in a way he did die in his sleep. He fell unconscious after his Healing and never woke. So Talanee Sedai smuggled him back inside his room, and returned to her own quarters, and once she was there she began howling that her Warder had died."

"I saw her today. She wasn't howling when I saw her."

"Sitter Talanee… coats herself in iron. Many Aes Sedai do. But you will understand better when you're older, lad. Right now... Master Kentrin tells me you're confined to sleeping, resting, and eating."

Sath nodded, with a grimace. At the moment he felt rested and full of porridge, and it sounded very dull.

"Very well. Then you'll be happy to know that Master Kentrin also thinks it's a bloody waste of time to have a recruit rolling his thumbs, and as he knows I've talked to you before, he's asked me to tutor you in history and strategy until you're strong enough to rejoin your group."

Sath felt a smile spread all over his face.

Jored opened the tome with the maps again. "Now then. What do you know of Arthur Hawkwing?"

* * *

_Author's Note;_

I _like_ writing Talanee.

I am also very fond of this ending. It just fits so well, and it leaves me with a big smile and a sort-of fuzzy "aawh, how sweet" feeling.

In other news, I am currently low on ideas for more Warder tales but I want to be writing. Someone please inspire me.


	21. Brown with Green: Why?

**Why?**

Mindful of Anthared's paranoia, Jahra knocked instead of walking right in. The bony old Warder answered, with, naturally, his hand on his sword. When he saw her he eased perhaps half a notch and bowed his head, widening the crack of the door until she could enter. She thanked him, and he closed it again behind her.

"Yamela is in her sitting room, Jahra Sedai," he told her, with that perfect blend of deference and distance that Warders used towards other Aes Sedai. They would be polite and respectful, but tell them to _do_ something and they would simply stare expressionlessly at you, or at best tell you to take it up with their bond-holder. Some Warders would not as much as hold open a door for anyone but their own Aes Sedai, unless she explicitly told them to. Very curious men, Warders.

Most days she gave the matter no thought, but today was different.

She made her way to Yamela's sitting room and took a seat without announcing herself. There was no need. And sure enough, half a moment later…

"Yamela, Jahra Sedai has come to see you," Anthared announced from the doorway, with a curt bow at Yamela.

"Thank you, Anthared," Yamela murmured, her attention absorbed by her bookshelf.

She actually _had_ a bookshelf now. Jahra knew there had been a time when Yamela had read only if forced to. She had hardly been _able_ to read, either, and too proud to admit it, which likely accounted for her reluctance. The tale went that she had driven several Accepted teachers into screaming fits, and one Aes Sedai into a cold fury, before the truth came out, but that had been before Jahra herself set foot in the Tower.

"What are you looking for?" Jahra asked.

"It's on the counter in your sleeping chamber, beneath your shawl," Anthared said, as if he could read Yamela's mind and already knew. "Your shawl which, I should add, you have not folded properly, and it's hanging over the counter's edge and touching the floor."

Yamela turned quite coolly to her Warder. "Then by all means, my dearest _Gaidin_, go and _fold_ my shawl for me and _bring me_ that book."

Anthared bowed his head and left the doorway.

"What book?" Jahra asked.

"I had an unpleasant encounter with a librarian this morning," Yamela grimaced, and flopped in a very non-Aes Sedai manner down on a couch. "Apparently I should have returned _Studies of the Tearen Horse _yesterday."

"Be glad they didn't raid your room and have you ask your Ajah Head for a penance," Jahra told her blandly.

"They _do_ that?" Yamela wondered with a frown.

Jahra nodded. "Sometimes."

"Then I got off easy." Yamela studied her for a moment. "What did you want me for?"

Jahra considered. "Talk," she said finally.

"…about?"

"Jored. He asked me to bond him."

Yamela sprang to her feet and clapped her hands together. "Congratulations, Jahra!" she exclaimed, her face beaming. "Your first Warder. I knew you'd come around, soon or late."

Anthared came back into the room and wordlessly handed _Studies of the Tearen Horse _to Yamela. She thanked him with a pat on the arm and examined the book to make certain it was undamaged. Satisfied, she sat it down on a table and turned back to Jahra. "So how does it feel?"

"I told him no," Jahra said.

Yamela froze. "You… told him _no_? But why?"

"I don't need a Warder. What would I do with him? Have him carry my books?"

"Nonsense. Everyone needs a Warder. Only the Reds are too thick-headed to see it. You haven't converted to Red, have you? I've never seen you bite a man's head off for looking at you." Yamela chuckled at her own joke. Then shot a sharp look over her shoulder, and her voice landed like the crack of a whip. "Leave the wine cabinet _alone_, Anthared. You've already had two glasses this morning. That will be enough."

Anthared closed the cabinet as silently as he had opened it; not even the bottle and glass in his hand clinked when he put them back down. Just as quietly, he placed himself at the wall, roughly half-way between Yamela's couch and the exit. His stance was relaxed, but his eyes remained cold and wary. The eyes of a hunting hawk. Or perhaps a snake.

Jahra wrenched her gaze from him, and stopped wondering what was going on in his head. Yamela was obviously very fond of her eldest Warder, but Jahra still wasn't used to him. Not used to the _new_ him. She had known him before, by acquaintance, but he was not the same. He'd been warm and outgoing then, before he lost his first Aes Sedai. Very proper, but never as indifferent to the rest of the world as many Warders were.

He still walked, still talked and breathed, and was still an image of courtesy; but having him near made Jahra feel as if a dead person watched her. She didn't know how Yamela could stand it.

"You'd better take young Jored up on his offer," Yamela went on. "Won't be long before some Green snares him. I know Rovella has her eye on him already. She had his brother, and she sort of wants the set."

Which showed how the Green mindset reduced Warders to nothing more than collectable items. Jahra wasn't surprised. Greens were odd.

For her part, Jahra felt… defensive. "He told me," she said. "Rovella asked him, and he turned her down." Jahra was proud of him for that. The nerve of the woman… coming to Jored and in one breath announcing that she'd managed to get his brother killed, but would like to bond him instead? No sense for proprieties. It was all well and good that Jored had turned her down.

But then he had come to _her_… yes, then he had come to her. And she didn't know what to make of it. How had the lad gotten it into his head that _she_ would want a _Warder_? Still… "He actually made a rather pretty speech. He said he'd just declined an offer to be bonded, and he'd thought about it, and he'd decided that if he was to be anyone's Warder, it would be mine."

Yamela came as close to looking flabbergasted as any Aes Sedai ever would – even among friends. "And you _still_ turned him down?"

"Yes. Though I was… sort of flattered."

"You mean that you were emotionally _dumbstruck_," Yamela laughed. "Oh, Jahra. You don't turn a man down when he gives you such an offer. Not a man you _like_. You do like him, don't you?"

"He's a… friend."

"When was it you two met, again?"

"I taught him to read. I was Accepted. Five years ago."

Yamela shook her head in wry amusement. "Now listen to me, my sister, because I'm older than you and I know be–" She choked on the word, her eyes bulging, but set a hand to her throat and amended hastily; "In some things, I have more _experience_. If it was anyone else, I – I wouldn't argue _much_. But in this case… this boy wants to be your Warder, and I know you're fond of him…"

Jahra sighed. "But what would _I_ do with a _Warder_?"

"For one thing, I've already seen him carry books for you. More than once."

"He follows me to the library because the librarians don't want him in there unsupervised. That's why."

"_But he still does it._"

"As I said, that's just because –"

"I've also seen the two of you eating and discussing in the gardens."

"He's becoming quite the fan of Joradrinda's _Reasonings on the Creator_," Jahra murmured with a smile. "A little philosopher. And he says I need fresh air, so we eat in the gardens. But he's a _friend_, not a Warder."

Yamela shook her head with a sigh, as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. Then she looked up at Anthared. "Speaking of which, Anthared, you haven't eaten your lunch. It's still on the tray in the hall."

"Yamela, I'm not –"

"I don't care if you're hungry. Fetch it and eat it. _Here_. Where I can supervise."

Anthared bowed his head to her and left the room.

_He's like a spoiled child who doesn't want his spinach_, thought Jahra dryly. _Or a moody teenager who doesn't want much of anything._

No, that was unfair of her. She knew what Anthared's problem was, and it was no joking matter. He'd lost his first Aes Sedai, and he still felt the pain of it. It was not just his eyes that were half dead; _he_ was half dead.

"So he can leave you unwatched, now," she whispered, her eyes following the Warder out. Two-three years back Anthared hadn't been willing to leave Yamela's side, not even to go into the adjoining room.

"As long as we're here, home, he can let me out of his sight, at least for a few heartbeats," Yamela replied in the same low voice. Her tone had changed to a serious one. Rare enough that Yamela sounded _serious_. "And he's much better than he was. He sleeps at night and mostly he eats without reminders, too. But today he's been depressed since he woke up. I don't know why. That's _worse_ when we're home. That and his drinking. I have to watch him constantly. When we're out of Tar Valon, he can't make himself leave my side, and he hardly sleeps, but he's more _alive_. Probably because his work keeps him busy." She sniffed. "Here he feels safer, and thus has time to wallow in his grief."

Despite her sniff, an attempt to put on a brave face, she sounded defeated, as if her Warder's depression was a failure on her part. Which was pure nonsense. She did everything humanely possible to keep him and his moods up. If anything, Yamela _indulged_ Anthared too much.

Two years ago she had come close to earning herself Mortification of the Flesh because of it. The Head of the Green had nagged her about Anthared's condition and his unwillingness to leave Yamela's side… until all that kept Yamela from engaging the Head in a fist-fight was Anthared whispering calm in her ear. So Yamela had admitted herself. Admitted to Jahra, but likely to no one else. Jahra still found her eyebrows rising at the memory of Yamela stalking back and forth through her chamber, fists clenched as if she yearned to use them. An Aes Sedai! Engaging in fist fights! Against her Ajah Head!

Oh, she'd have been sent to a farm for a decade on top of whatever Mortification they chose to deal her, but Jahra didn't doubt that Yamela would have thought it well worth the price. For in Yamela's mind, if Anthared wanted to tag along with her… what was the phrase she had used?… "close as a wart on her behind"… that was between her and her _wart_, and no one else.

Surprising that the Head of the Green hadn't known better than to meddle between a Green and her Warder. Then again, Jahra also recalled when Yamela had later gleefully let slip that the Head of Green had been exchanged – and then had slapped her hand over her mouth and glared at Jahra, who had pretended to have heard nothing.

"And those twins you found?" Jahra asked.

Yamela grinned. "Anthared! How are the twins coming along?"

Anthared, coming back inside the room with a tray of food carried before him, replied sourly. "They're learning fast."

"I told you they would."

"Do they keep rooms down in the Warder barracks, or up here with you?"

"In the barracks," Yamela said off-handedly – then smiled. "They keep me updated on all the gossip." She looked at Anthared again. "Yes, food _does_ cool if you let it stand for too long. Eat it anyway."

Anthared dug in without comment, and without enthusiasm.

"Jahra," Yamela continued, after looking to make certain that her Warder was actually _eating_, "now listen to me. I know you, and you need someone to look after you, so you don't trip over your own feet, or forget to lunch, or something. A Warder would do you good. And Jored's the perfect choice. First of all, I've seen him at practice, and he knows his way about with the sword. More than that… he likes you, and he's as fond of reading as you are. By the Light, you _discuss philosophy_ with him! Are you actually going to sit there and let someone else bond him?"

"He said he didn't want to be anyone else's Warder," Jahra reminded her calmly.

Yamela rolled her eyes. "That's just a _challenge_ to a Green. One of them will bother herself enough to seduce him and bond him before he knows what happened. He's pretty enough for it, with those eyelashes and that long hair of his. Likely he'll be completely besotted… and in a couple of years, or a couple of dozen years, when he dies in her service, he'll die happy."

Jahra felt a twinge of concern.

"Don't tell me that doesn't bother you," Yamela went on mercilessly. "For if someone else bonds him, he wouldn't be your friend any more, now would he? I much doubt his new mistress would want him tagging along behind another Aes Sedai to carry her books. I can't believe you didn't think of asking him yourself…" She shook her head, and her voice grew firm, just as when she addressed her Warders. "Enough prattle. Go down to the Warder barracks and tell him you changed your mind."

Jahra blinked.

"Do it," Yamela said. "_Now_. Go on." Then in a sharper tone; "Eat _all of it_, Anthared. Light! You're too thin as it is, and I won't have you throwing your food to the kitchen cats."

"Yes, Aes Sedai," Anthared agreed tonelessly, and sat back down to eat the rest.

"It doesn't make you _ill_, whatever you might think. That's just illusionary," Yamela muttered darkly, while glaring at her Warder. "It'll make you keep your strength up. If we're going to get through any practice today, you'll need your strength."

"Yes, Aes Sedai. I suggest the brown riding habit. It's cold outside, and you'll be glad for the fur cuffs and collar."

"I'll keep warm practicing."

"I intended to see you through the forms, today. No sparring. You'll need the warmth."

Yamela nodded ascent, then turned back towards Jahra, looking as exasperated as she did uncompromising. "_Go_, Jahra. Or will I have to drag you down there and see the two of you bonded myself?"

"That's not the way it's done, Yamela," Jahra reminded her. She was reasonably certain Yamela wouldn't try it, either. Reasonably certain. She stood up. Yamela would want to change into that brown riding habit and be off for her afternoon practice sessions. Jahra had reading to return to. Reading which Jored had interrupted that morning, and she hadn't yet come around to picking it up again. She'd been restless. Most unusual for her, but there it was."Thank you for your advice."

Yamela sighed. "I can never talk you into anything, can I?"

"Of course you can. When I agree with you."

"_That_ hardly counts – oh, just promise me you'll think on it, and if you still don't want a Warder in the morning, I'll… try to keep my nagging to a minimum."

"I'll think on it," Jahra agreed. It was unlikely she'd be able to stop herself, after all, as restless as this entire matter had made her. It likely wouldn't leave her alone until she'd thought it good and through a dozen times.

"Could you take _Studies of the Tearen Horse_ back to the library for me?"

Jahra held out her hands for the book and Yamela gave it to her. She folded her arms about it.

"Don't forget it on _your_ counter, now," Yamela admonished her. "You don't have a Warder to keep track of it for you."

"I'll head straight for the library," Jahra assured her, and turned towards the door.

"One last thing, Jahra," Yamela called after her.

Jahra, in the doorway, turned back.

Yamela looked serious again. Serious and concerned. "You know deep down that you were wrong to deny him, and it bothers you. If it hadn't bothered you, you wouldn't have come to see me."

Jahra considered that – and finally nodded. If Jahra had been certain of her choice, she wouldn't have felt the need to talk it over with her friend. It wouldn't have made her restless.

Besides, hadn't she known Yamela would try to convince her to bond the lad? Going to Yamela, she must half have wished to be _convinced_.

By the time she left the Green Ajah quarters she had changed her mind. Once that was done, she was immediately satisfied with her decision. It felt right; she could feel her restlessness leaving her. She would be able to resume her studies later without any trouble. And Jored... Jored would be happy. That thought made her smile. She liked seeing him happy.

With Yamela's book forgotten in her arms, she instead aimed for the Warder barracks.

* * *

_Author's Note;_

This was just a scribble I did, while considering how Jahra first came to bond a Warder. It's less a short story of its own and more a chapter in a longer tale... considering all the side-tracks to Anthared and how he's doing, which makes the entire thing feel unfinished.

I wanted to add a note of humour in how Yamela keeps saying Jahra needs a Warder to look after her, while her own relationship to her eldest Warder is so ambiguous, but instead I ended up with a tangle of side-stories. If someone has a suggestion as to how I might make it more streamlined, please tell me.


	22. Green: Anger Management

**Anger Management**

_

* * *

_

_Part 1: Old Habits_

* * *

When they reached Tar Valon, Yamela was firmly set on escaping the Tower as soon as possible and never having anything to do with any Aes Sedai ever again. At the same time, she had already decided that if she had to be Aes Sedai, she would have a Warder like Tamerken.

On the way to Tar Valon she had made countless attempts and had three successful escapes. "Successful" in this case meant that she had been out of sight for at least an hour. But each time Tamerken had found her and hauled her back, and after the second success Hessina Sedai had given in and let the old Warder tie Yamela into her saddle, and keep her hands tied whenever she was not under eyes.

But ropes were easy to wriggle out of, and Yamela didn't see the need. Tamerken was the most competent and most alert man she had ever encountered. He was confident like a man who had already survived hell, with the set expression of one who intended to do it again. Even if she escaped a hundred times, he would find her and bring her back. She might almost be disappointed in him if he didn't.

She was sixteen and had been a thief for as long as she could remember, and caught only once. Put on trial only once… and she wasn't sure it was a blessing or a curse that a visiting Aes Sedai had attended the trial, and snatched her up and dragged her to Tar Valon instead of leaving her for the noose.

She had been caught only once because she'd been good at getting away. Always able to outrun or outwit whatever guardsman or angered citizen set after her, and she prided herself on being able to evade her pursuers. But Tamerken caught her before she came to the wit-or-run part of her attempted escape. Even if his back was turned and his horse several paces ahead, he would calmly rein in and reset the ropes around her wrists while she was only half done wriggling out of them, or she would find him catching her by the arm just as she was about to quietly slip down from her saddle and disappear into the darkness. The one time she had tried to escape on horseback he had simply whistled after the creature, and it had ignored Yamela and meekly returned to him. Stupid creature.

Not that she was a very good rider. Banging her heels into the mare's sides and holding on had been about as complex a horseback escape as she could manage.

The three times she successfully disappeared, he tracked her down without much trouble and dragged her back. After the first time she had learned that he was both stronger and a much better fighter than she was herself, so she sullenly stopped kicking and thrashing and – and yes, _biting_. If that was to work, she realised, she'd have to distract the man first. But trying to woo him – even when she'd pressed against him and whispered promises in his ear – had not earned her any reaction, though for some reason Hessina Sedai had smiled smugly as if she too had heard the whisper.

Otherwise Hessina Sedai spent most of the trip writing in her journal or losing herself in her thoughts.

Yamela's first view of Tar Valon would likely have impressed and awed her more if she hadn't been so busy sulking. They took the ropes off her before they crossed the bridge, but Tamerken rode beside Yamela with his hand firmly on her shoulder the entire way, until they at last passed into the Tower grounds. Hessina Sedai looked only relieved to hand her over to the Mistress Of Novices. Avesyne Sedai was a roundish woman with a roundish face completely void of emotion. She dressed in plain white as if clad for mourning, with a white shawl over her shoulders, and she wrote "Yamela el'Ferrin" into the Novice book with a hand that even Yamela, who was barely literate enough to scribble the name, could tell was elegant.

El'Ferrin wasn't her birth name. She thought her mother had called her 'Yamela', but Ferrin was the name of the so-called Brat King where she had grown up; a man who'd gathered street urchins and taught them the underhand trade. Less kindly tongues called him the Rat King. Yamela had outlived most of her sisters and brothers in the Brat King's crew, and after Ferrin himself was caught and 'hung by the neck until dead' her new crew had mockingly dubbed her the Rat King's heir, el'Ferrin. El' was a royal epithet, one she had no right to, but when she'd defiantly given that as her name to the prison clerk he had just laughed, shook his head, and jotted it down. "So you're a Rat Brat, wench? You'll be sad to hear we've just had the rat catcher in and there's not much squealing in the corners left."

As they brought her to her cell, one of the guards had told her that if she missed the squealing, he'd be more than willing to come in later and make _her_ squeal. She hadn't answered him; he was big and she knew that if she kicked him in the nuts, there would be nowhere to run, and him and his mates would be angry. So instead she had smiled coquettishly and wondered if he would be stupid enough to let her steal his knife. Perhaps that could get her out.

But she hadn't gotten out, not until the trial, and at the trial they had raised their eyebrows but accepted her name without quibbling, mostly because they understood the reference. Even Hessina Sedai had made no comment, though once the quiet woman opened her mouth she was usually an endless torrent of rights versus wrongs and propers and lawfuls versus lawlesses and whatnots. So Yamela supposed, as she watched the letters form on the page of the Novice book, that now it actually _was_ her name.

A Rat Brat, in the Tower. Old Ferrin would have laughed till he cried. Then he'd have robbed the Aes Sedai of anything more valuable than their toenail clippings. He'd never learned caution, old Ferrin. He'd never really grown that _old_, either.

She accepted the white dress and slippers without fuss – she'd hardly ever worn a dress, much less a white one, and especially not one of as fine materials. She was used to cast-offs from the older thieves. To receive her very own clothes, her own room, and a proper dinner, stunned her into compliance. She even slept well for several hours in her new bed.

Then she woke up, restless, and wanted out.

It was one of the serving women who caught her about to climb over the wall; she'd gone careless and the big matronly woman cried for help when Yamela kicked her and twisted free from her grip. Thus the Tower guard had her back in her quarters and alerted the Mistress of Novices.

So before her first breakfast in the Tower, she had received her first penance.

* * *

During her first few months as a Novice, Yamela despised everything.

Most of the other Novices were wimps, squeamish and spoiled and waiting for someone to start kicking them about. They wouldn't have lasted a week on the street, unless it was as some man's favourite, and then they'd have lasted only until someone smashed _his_ teeth in and raped and strangled _her_. Yamela treated them as she thought of them and didn't make any friends. The ones she could have respected sided with the wimps, but that was their loss. It did make for lonely days, however; Yamela was used to having a crew about her.

She was at penance more often than she wasn't. Kitchen duty and pulling weeds in the gardens kept her from advancing in her studies very quickly, and her so-called studies kept her from escaping kitchen duty very long, for she wasn't very accommodating of her Accepted teachers. She'd learned to curtsey and "yes, Aes Sedai" before she'd spent a minute in the Tower – appearances were important when you landed on the bottom rung of a new crew – but on the other hand she'd learned to lie and sneak before she knew to talk and walk, and learned how to taunt people so they made mistakes… old habits died hard. Before long most of the teaching Accepted preferred to shuffle her into a corner and tell her to be quiet instead of letting her participate in class.

Which suited her fine, if there were books involved. Yamela couldn't read, not really, but old Ferrin had taught her and the other brats all he knew of the art, and Yamela was proud to be able to make out letters and write her own name. So whenever she couldn't read, she pretended that she could, and then simply side-talked questions on what she had read. Once she had even said it was a stupid book and she wanted a better one. And proceeded until the Accepted could hardly stammer for anger. _That_ had earned her a lengthy visit to Avesyne Sedai and a rare taste of the slipper.

Avesyne Sedai was a mild Mistress of Novices in the regard that she would rather reason with an initiate than subject her to violence. She was, however, a devout believer in kitchen duty.

As for training in the use of the Power… endless hours of trying and failing to open herself for _saidar_ was wearing her out. Much more of it and she thought she'd grit her teeth right down to the gums! They told her she was born with the ability, but apparently that didn't make things easy. While the other Novices sat and played with different-coloured fireballs, smiling as if all the good of the world beamed down upon them, Yamela struggled to even sense the Source, much less touch it.

She wanted out of the Tower, away from self-satisfied Aes Sedai and we're-better-than-you-are Accepted, and if she never saw a white bloody dress again she'd be happy. As soon as she was gone she'd _burn_ the one she was wearing.

* * *

The fifth of her escape attempts, five months in, changed her mind. That time, she was caught not by servants or guards, not by Accepted, or by the other novices rushing off to carry tales, but by an actual Aes Sedai. She'd used a dark shadow and a 'borrowed' dark cloak to sneak out through an open gate, when an arm appeared from nowhere and snatched her by the hair. She found herself face to face with first a Warder, and then with a stone-faced Aes Sedai. Which presented a particularly nasty breed of trouble.

"What are you doing out of grounds, child?" the woman asked. She wore green like a badge of honour, even with green ribbons braided into her long ash-blonde hair.

It took Yamela all of two moments to realise that _this_ Aes Sedai was not to be trifled with. She was the sort of woman who would not only survive the streets, but would come out heading a crew. The Warder with her, a small man with slanted eyes, was of a kind with Tamerken. There would be no getting away from him.

Yamela bluntly replied with the truth. There was no hiding it. "I was trying to escape, Aes Sedai," she said. She'd had this woman as a teacher, but she couldn't remember the name. She remembered, though, for once feeling compelled to pay attention.

Apparently the woman remembered her. "Yamela el'Ferrin. I don't doubt you know the consequences of trying to run away?"

"I'm growing familiar with them, Aes Sedai."

The Aes Sedai raised one eyebrow, and her voice hardened. It was not the hardness of a threat; just the hardness of undoubtable authority. "Moderate your tone, child. Address a sister like that too often and your backside will be beaten rawer than rotten meat."

Yamela found herself for the first time in years actually feeling _ashamed_. If nothing else, she should know better than to snap at people when she was so apparently at their mercy. "I'm sorry, Aes Sedai."

"I hear that sharp tongue of yours made Enyen cry, child," said the Aes Sedai.

Enyen was a flittery-fluttery newly-raised Accepted who said she wanted to join the White, but who never seemed able to master her emotions. She reminded Yamela of a butterfly, and Enyen's fool attempts at Aes Sedai composure had resulted in a flare of Yamela's contempt. The girl had deserved it, thinking she was all that just because of a silly ring and a banded hem. "I did, Aes Sedai."

"My name is _Velde_, child. You should bloody well know it."

"Yes, Velde Sedai. I'm sorry, Velde Sedai."

Velde stared at her, until Yamela couldn't meet her eyes any more. "Do you believe you can make _me_ break down and cry?"

Yamela blushed. "No, Velde Sedai."

"So you do have _some_ sense, after all. Do you know why?"

Yamela considered, and knew that if she opened her mouth she would likely get herself into trouble. So instead she simply shook her head.

"Because I have learned what the Tower could teach me. I am _Aes Sedai_, and kings and queens give way to me. And do you know what I think of spoiled brats, born with the spark, signed into the book, who instead _try to run away?_"

"You – you don't approve, Velde Sedai," Yamela guessed.

"They're foolish bloody _cowards_."

Yamela blinked.

"But _cowardice_ doesn't calculate with who you are. Why would a girl like you ever run from something?"

"I – I don't want to be Aes Sedai," Yamela told her bluntly, raising her chin. With an effort. Velde Sedai made her feel very small.

"Why not?"

Yamela opened her mouth to reply… and then closed it again. "I… I don't like being cooped up," she muttered finally.

"So you're incapable of enduring hardship in order to reach a goal. Tell me, girl; do you _have_ any goals?"

Yamela felt her temper rise. _Incapable of enduring hardship?_ "I can endure whatever punishments you decide to throw at me," she snapped.

"…throw at me, _Velde Sedai_," corrected the Warder, and gave Yamela a rough shake.

"I'm not speaking of punishments, child," Velde said quietly; like a volcano was quiet between its warning rumbles, so that you apprehensively strained your ears to hear the next. "I'm speaking of hard work. I'm speaking of studying for the bloody shawl, and with it more freedom and respect than a street urchin like you ever dreamed of. Responsibilities, too, but responsibilities build character. And _this_ is what you intend to run away from? To do _what_? Go back to being a top-story burglar and evade the noose for a couple of years longer, before they catch you again? Or, perhaps easier for a pretty girl like you; move into a disreputable house and entertain drunken men for money?"

Yamela found herself lowering her gaze to stare sullenly to the side. When Velde sniffed in disgust, she flinched. She couldn't help it.

"Get the child out of my sight, Raben," Velde growled. "Hand her over to the Mistress of Novices and tell where we found her. I don't have time for wasteful girls born with the spark to channel but not the spunk to learn."

The Warder, Raben, dragged her off, and Yamela followed him meekly.

Velde Sedai was… something else. Most Aes Sedai were aloof, projected confidence, and many played at hardness, but Velde Sedai was _genuine_. Most Aes Sedai landed in the category of people Yamela would have smiled and curtsied to, and then robbed blind at the first opportunity. She could have stolen the slippers from the feet of the entire Brown Ajah without them noticing until next winter when their toes started to freeze. But she would never have tried to steal from Velde Sedai. There were people you robbed, and people you left alone. That was the way of it.

Once she had met a female crew leader, Madame Cherisse, when she was a girl running errands for Ferrin. Also a hard woman, and one Yamela wouldn't have dreamed of robbing. Years later a rival had betrayed the Madame, after which both she and the rival had been caught. But it was said that Madame Cherisse hadn't broken under torture and had taken her secrets to the noose, leaving everything in her well-organized network to her three daughters, while her rival's crew was neatly broken apart and taken in for questioning.

Yamela had wanted to be like Madame Cherisse. Now… she found herself wanting to be like Velde Sedai. Nothing would ever break a woman like Velde Sedai. Like a mountain she would endure, however the storms weathered her and the years weighed on her.

And for the first time since her arrival in Tar Valon, Yamela considered the possibility that she might want to be Aes Sedai. If an Aes Sedai didn't have to be a bookworm like Hessina Sedai, or mild-as-milkwater like Avesyne Sedai, or like any of the squeamish Novices and the full-of-themselves Accepted; if a woman like Velde could be _proud_ to call herself Aes Sedai… then so could Yamela. The chance to be an Aes Sedai was in fact better than if someone had offered her a crown and half a kingdom, and what was she doing? She was trying to _run away_.

Well, old habits did die hard.

And even if she didn't gain the shawl, she would learn to channel. They said she could. With the Power she would never again have to smile coquettishly to an ugly man just because he was big and she didn't want to get hurt. She could face people instead of hiding from them, even if they were many. And that wasn't all, not by far. She could pick a pocket without ever going close, she might be able to device a trick for hiding better in shadows, or fly up to windows in higher stories so she wouldn't have to make those risky climbs up difficult walls.

She could rule her own crew, and they wouldn't dare betray her.

The possibilities suddenly seemed endless, and Yamela was eager for them.

And… and if she _did_ become an Aes Sedai she could have a Warder, one like Tamerken. Or if she joined the Green, several Warders. That would be like having her own little crew. But it would be better. There would be no risk of being stabbed in the back by your own, no risk of a bigger crew hunting her out of her den when winter came, no constant fear of being captured… not that she'd had the sense to take that risk seriously until it had actually _happened_.

If she _did_ become Aes Sedai…

Who was she kidding? She was a Rat Brat, nothing more. Yamela el'Ferrin, and the only reason they accepted that as her name was because they could laugh at it. She'd be better off skulking in alleyways until dark, when honest people were asleep and her associates wanted to know which house she'd sought out for the night's job. She would be better off running away.

But when she sat again – gingerly – on her Novice bed, locked into her room for the night with her newly slippered bottom sore beneath her, she heard Velde Sedai's condemnation again; _cowards or wasteful girls born with the spark to channel but not the spunk to learn_.

Yamela was _not_ a coward, burn her. And if she'd had no spunk for hard work, she'd have starved long ago. _Burn her_!

From anyone else Yamela would have ignored the comment. But from a woman like Velde Sedai, who would have _thrived_ anywhere from the streets to on a bloody throne, Yamela couldn't ignore it. Instead she took it to heart.

She was going to learn to be Aes Sedai. That was her firm belief as she went to bed.

* * *

_Part 2: Lessons_

* * *

In the morning she was reminded of why she'd begun to _hate_ rosebuds opening to the sun. She'd had enough of streams guided by the banks before her first month was out, and at the end of three months when all the standard novice exercises had earned her little more than the briefest touch on the Source, she told the Accepted teaching her to shove her bloody roses up her backside and think up something new, because the roses weren't helping.

She'd had another visit to Avesyne Sedai and another three days doing nothing but scrubbing pots.

That had been two months previous, and nothing had improved since then. But the morning after her Velde Sedai incident, Yamela was told to stay behind while the others went to lunch. She found herself sat on a chair and set upon by three Accepted. Their instructions came in a chorus of forced-patient voices.

"Go on, child; you're a rosebud, opening to the sun."

"Try harder, child."

"Close your eyes, that might help."

All it helped to do was make Yamela's frustration bubble. But she closed her eyes and kept her temper. With an effort.

"You're not even trying, are you, child?"

_That_, when her head was so full of roses she was afraid they'd start popping out her ears? She gritted her teeth.

"_Relax_, it's not going to work if you pretend you're stiff as a main mast."

For an hour they drilled her in different exercises. She was the calm drop of dew basking in the morning light. Could she feel the light? Could she feel it soaking her, warming her? She was an empty chalice waiting to be filled. Had she really cleared her mind? It wouldn't work if she was all cluttered with thoughts and emotions, she had to be _empty_. She was a willow, her branches swaying in a gentle wind… she must surrender to the wind and let her branches sway. She must let the breeze rustle her leaves. Could she hear them whispering at her? Let the whispers soothe her. Surrender to the breeze. The willow bends to the gale and survives, while the oak resists and is broken.

Twice she actually felt the warm joy of _saidar_ seeping into her, but both times the Accepted breaking out into cheers made her lose it again. Both times they redoubled their efforts; both times she had to start over. Finally she thought that this might actually work if the silly bints would just _shut up_ and let her try on her own.

When her mind was beginning to feel as battered as if someone had slapped it around, she was sent to a belated dinner and told to reappear in the morning, promptly after breakfast. She told them she was on kitchen duty – which wasn't true, but if she made enough of a fuss early in the morning she very likely would be – but the Accepted just looked at her.

"Child, Avesyne Sedai has decided that from now on you're not to waste any more time in penance until you're able to reliably hold the Source."

"This will be your penance."

"For not learning quickly enough. You're terribly behind, and it's your own fault."

Yamela briefly felt the life of _saidar_ thrice more on the second day, and once on the third, but after that all her new 'penance' seemed to do was feed her frustration. She thought she'd worked hard on the streets, but day after day playing mind games tired her more than anything she'd ever experienced. She couldn't understand it. All she did was try different methods of opening to the sun or waiting to be filled or pretending she was some kind of mindless animal basking in warm light. She was tired and her jaws ached from being clenched for so long, for when one of the Accepted took her hands and shook the fists open and told her to relax them she had gritted her teeth instead. They stroked her hair as if that would put her at ease and she hated that; they made her lie flat on the table as if that would help her relax, but all it did was make her uncomfortable that she was lying prone with her eyes closed while they prowled about like hungry cats.

On the seventh day, Avesyne Sedai herself sat in attendance, watching from the corner. The Accepted took Yamela through the usual exercises, and she did her best not to grit her teeth, not to slap their hands away from her hair or to yank her own hands free from their grasps. Her mind was as much of an open chalice as it had ever been, if only because everything aside from opening bloody roses had been bullied out, and if she'd ever been on the brink of surrendering to anything, it was then. On the brink of surrendering to her temper and throwing a fit, with Avesyne Sedai in the room or not, burn her.

Nothing was working anymore, despite how her mind felt soft and pliant enough to open to any bloody sun, if more opening like a cracked egg than like a spring rose.

_That_ thought made her giggle.

"Try to take this seriously, child!" one of the Accepted exclaimed, and gave Yamela's head a shove to the side.

Yamela's eyes snapped open and it was all she could do not to leap from her seat. Shove always came to push and if you weren't sure you could win you had better be _elsewhere_. This time there was no question of who would win; Yamela could _flatten_ the other girl. But no – she wasn't on the streets anymore and she had no reason to fear being kicked about. Not physically, at least. And no grounds to _kick_ people about, either.

Being bullied, however, was an entirely different matter. Apparently she could be bullied about as much as it pleased the bullies.

Yamela closed her eyes again and thought of an egg about to crack open. She'd tried everything else, after all.

"Again, child. You are a rosebud, opening to the sun…"

While one of the Accepted instructed her, sounding patient as ever, the two others whispered in the background. "More like a bloody anvil resisting the hammer. The silly girl's too arrogant to take in anything we say. I bet she's not even _trying_. She's just closing her eyes and sitting there enjoying wasting our time."

_Not trying?_ Yamela's eyes opened again, and she fixed the Accepted in her gaze. "You've _felt_ me touch the bloody Source," she said slowly. "Don't accuse me of _not trying_."

"You should have managed better by now, _child_," the girl snapped back at her, setting hands to hips. "And besides, you haven't as much as brushed _saidar_ for three days. I have better things to do than to watch you squeeze your eyes shut and squirm!"

"_Alleisa_," came Avesyne Sedai's cool voice from her corner.

Alleisa blushed red, turned and curtsied and murmured an apology. Then she shot Yamela a glare of pure fire.

Yamela smiled. As always, she found she could easily mask anger with mockery. "I'm a rosebud, opening to the sun," she said. "My petals are soft and warm, the dew drops cool, and slowly they fold outward, curling from the top and down, and –" She closed her eyes again and took on her most serious expression. "– and within me there is only the emptiness waiting to be filled with life and colour, the beauty waiting to be displayed. I am in no hurry. I have no fear. I…"

Alleisa leaned in to hiss in her ear; "If you mock me, Novice, you will regret it. And if you waste my time so that I can't prepare for my testing, I'll…" That's where her imagination failed her, and all she did was make an annoyed sound.

"Don't bother, Alleisa," said another Accepted lowly. "If this keeps up she'll be out of our hands soon enough."

"She'll be a stamp of _failure_ on our records, that's what she'll be," said Alleisa angrily. "They won't ever let us test if they think we can't even teach a girl to find the Source. I don't see why the Tower even takes in stupid street brats like her."

The egg cracked, and the anger boiled over. Yamela's eyes flashed opened and she shot to her feet, up towards Alleisa. She burned with fury, seethed from head to toe; she was unable to hold that heat within her and it exploded out, tendrils breaking free to whip wildly. Willow branches in the gale _indeed_. The three Accepted gasped as one and drew away, but Yamela stepped right into Alleisa's face and thundered; "_Stupid_ street brats are _dead_ street brats, you arrogant cunt. I'm one of those who _lived_. Don't let you ever call me stupid again, or I'll cut out your bloody tongue and stuff it down your throat –"

It felt as if she was suddenly and abruptly cut off from life. The world lost colour and she staggered as if someone had hit her in the head. Before her, a whimpering Alleisa fell back to the floor, and the other two white-faced Accepted collapsed as if whatever had been holding them up suddenly gave way.

Avesyne Sedai had stood up in her corner, and her emotionless face surveyed the scene. The furniture was tossed out of place, books and other small objects had flown into the air and were now raining back to the floor from their orbits in the ceiling.

"That, child," Avesyne Sedai broke the silence, while waving a hand to water out a few stray flames which had landed about the room, "was rather _not_ what we were hoping to achieve today."

Yamela stared about herself with widened eyes. "Did… did I?"

"Yes, child," Avesyne confirmed coolly. "In the future, try not to channel when you're angry. That was you holding _saidar_, but I'd rather say you were _being channelled by it_ instead of channelling it."

The door had flown from its hinges, and some of the marble tiles in the floor had left their places and had now crashed down in others. The wall hangings, woven with diagrams or pictures of roses opening to the sun, had fluttered free and one had landed over Alleisa's head like a shawl, though the silly girl didn't appear to notice, staring at Yamela as she was. At the edges, the wall hanging's threads had pulled free from one another like snakes escaping holes in the ground. Some threads had come free entirely were still swaying through the air, lifeless now, down toward the floor.

Yamela swallowed.

"Don't fret now, child, I have a shield over you," Avesyne said, and the emotionless White laid a hand on Yamela's shoulder. She gave the three Accepted curt glances as if telling them how she had seen their ill-fitting discomfiture and made note of it, before looking about the room. "You three may return to your studies. You, Yetari, will tell the Master Carpenter we shall require his services. You, Alleisa, will do the same for the Master Mason. Kailen, you will inform the Matron that we need cleaners up here immediately to clear this mess before the men can begin their work."

"Yes, Avesyne Sedai," Yetari said meekly, and the three bobbed curtsies before hurrying out of the room.

Avesyne guided Yamela to a chair and then took one for herself. She raised it from its sideway position on the floor with the help of the Power. "Are you in control of your temper now, child?"

Yamela, who found herself shaking, steeled herself and nodded.

"Good. I'll remove the shield."

The source had always been there, Yamela had concluded, even when she hadn't been aware of it. Lately she had learned to sense it, even if she couldn't always touch it, but now… now it seemed somehow closer. Closer, _too close_. The sun was too close to the bloody opening rose, and would char the petals.

She did not reach for it.

"Now try again," Avesyne Sedai told her mildly. A small ball of light appeared in front of her. A simple weave of Air and Fire, nothing more than two strands twirled together into a yarn, supercoiled into a small globe. Lead a strand of Air and a strand of Fire into such proximity, and the globe would automatically coil into being.

Yamela had been told of it. She'd been able to see some weaves and make out the five different powers for the last month, even if she hadn't been able to reliably hold _saidar_ herself.

"Just a touch, now, mind," Avesyne Sedai said. "Like dipping a finger into the stream. Then let the stream trickle into your finger, and feel the five currents."

Imagining the source above as a stream instead of a globe was surprisingly easy. The more she focused on it, the more vast it became. She imagined herself –

"Keep your eyes open, child. You must remain aware of where you are."

She imagined herself dipping a finger beneath the cool surface. The Power flowed into her at once, brightening colours, sharpening scents. She knew her own heartbeat, _thud thud_, _thud thud_, deep in her chest, and felt her pulse quicken as _saidar_ flowed into her. Sorting out the five powers was instinctive. She raised her hand as if to draw a line through the air –

The Power was suddenly gone. Concentrating on the line had cost her grasp on the Source.

Avesyne nodded. "You must always remember to keep that finger in the water," she admonished in her silky manner. "Without a touch on the Source, you can try to draw as many threads or weaves as you may wish, but nothing will happen. Try again, child. I believe the Source comes easily to you now."

Yamela nodded, and reached carefully for the Source again. It trickled into her, sweetness and delight beyond bound, and she – no, she was _not_ thirsty for more. Keeping her eyes open and seeing the destruction of the room kept her from wanting _more_. Not now. Not when she didn't know how to control it.

She kept a mental finger in that stream – well, _two_ mental fingers, she dared that much, just for the sweetness of it – and let her true hand trace a thread of Fire, and then another of Air. They twirled together neatly and formed a globe.

Yamela smiled with pleasure, relaxing a bit. She had done it! She had actually –

And again the Source was gone, and the ball of flame winked out. She sighed.

Avesyne Sedai nodded. "Once again, child. Keep your focus this time."

The next attempt she lost the Source upon tracing lines.

Avesyne Sedai sent her to eat, and after eating they met in another classroom. Catching hold of _saidar_ was still easy – a trick once learned, as Ferrin used to say – but keeping that hold took effort.

On her second attempt she managed to form and sustain a small globe of fire – and smile at it, too. It wavered, but it _was_ there.

"Very good," said Avesyne Sedai coolly. "Now remove it. Let it go, and it will fade on its own."

The threads weren't part of her, but she could still feel them. They were somehow connected to the flood of joy within her. She released them and the globe winked obediently out.

"Enough for today," decided Avesyne. "Tomorrow, child… try to keep your temper. Remember, too, to leave the Source alone unless you're supervised. This is _important_."

Yamela curtsied without fuss, still feeling elated. "Yes, Avesyne Sedai."

* * *

A trick once learned, as Ferrin used to say; Yamela never had trouble finding _saidar _again. Instead, she had trouble keeping it _away_. Whenever her temper rose, so did _saidar_.

Two weeks later, she let her frustration run free, and _saidar_ had burned the banners of the wall in the hallway where she had been supposed to scrub the floor. A week after that, an argument with a fool Accepted over her refusal to read aloud from a book, made the book explode in her face and all the stools in the room shot away from her, dumping the shrieking Novices to the floor. There were plenty of bruises and two Novices had to be Healed, one from having a stool hit her in the face.

In between it would be something minor, small objects lifting into the air, or little bursts of light flashing about her. But it scared the other Novices… and it scared Yamela too. After another three weeks, she had been annoyed with an exercise, muttering to herself as she walked, and suddenly her unintentional channelling had loosened the stones of a staircase beneath her feet and let her plummet to the floor below. She'd fallen plenty of times while climbing about a city night, and had learned to land safely, so she wasn't actually hurt, but she'd still been shaking when she was summoned to Avesyne's office. Actually close to tears, had asked the Mistress of Novices what to do.

"Well, child," Avesyne replied with her eternal patience, "it's easy enough to explain. Taking hold of the Source is very much about letting go. And when you lose your temper, you similarly _let go_. So now, when you have been with us for these months, and your mind has grown attuned to the Source, instead of just lashing out with your temper, you lash out with _saidar_. Unfortunate, and peculiar, but not unheard of. Don't fret, child. We'll sort it out in due course. But until then, you must keep your temper. We do have a limited number of classrooms and staircases, and the Masons can only work so fast. Not to mention the costs. Of course, with the amount of work you've been doing in the kitchens, the Mistress of the Kitchen has been heard to say she needs fewer kitchen maids, and thus we might save on costs there instead."

It was only later, when she was alone in her room, that Yamela realised that… that might have been a spot of wit. Wit! From a _White_!

* * *

As Avesyne had said, things grew easier with time. The other Novices were afraid of her, which still made for lonely days, but Yamela was _learning to channel_. It was addictive. After a year, not even the long days doing chores bothered her. Scrubbing floors didn't frustrate her, and thus no more paintings were accidentally burned. What little free time she had, she spent reading – or, _pretending_ to read. Preferably near the Warders' practice yard.

Warders fascinated her. They wouldn't tell her exactly what the bond was – Aes Sedai were keen on keeping secrets – but it did change the men. In subtle ways. She watched, and she saw how a boy one day was a Warder the next, liquid grace infused into his movements, a new stamina and strength somehow soaked into his bones.

Of course she would talk to the recruits, in the rare free moments they had. Of course she would flirt with them. That was how you interacted with boys. The younger ones would blush so very prettily, and the more confident ones would flirt back. The handsome ones would put a pleasant flutter in her heart. But their manners were boringly impeccable, for the most part, and they were more likely to bow to her than to touch her. Then there was Urik, braver than the others, who kissed her. He was very good at it, too. For a while she snuck out to enjoy his company when the others slept, and he found ways to keep her company in the gardens while she was plucking weeds from the flowerbeds. Only, once he had arrived she usually forgot the flowerbeds.

But an up-nosed Red called Cavese learned of the matter when she caught them kissing and giggling in the cubby beneath a staircase. She was sent to a farm for two months, and when she returned Urik had been bonded to a Green. When she greeted him he apologized and avoided her eyes.

Worse, Cavese had taken a personal interest in making a 'proper Novice' out of Yamela, which meant her visits to the practice yard were done. "It is not seemly for a Novice to spend so much time with _men_. You are not even to _speak_ with the recruits again until you've gained the ring and the banded hem." Since the other Novices still hardly spoke to her, it returned Yamela to loneliness. Or would have, if Cavese hadn't taken up all her time and left no room for loneliness.

Cavese had also caught on to how far behind Yamela was in all her studies, excluding channelling itself. At least, anything which included _reading_. The arguments with Accepted over books had continued – and the accidents with _saidar _had done likewise, at least until one of the Accepted figured to shield Yamela first and _then_ argue with her.

Perhaps mostly because they insisted she do it, Yamela still avoided reading like the plague it was. She could stammer through her books by herself, alone in her room, and she was growing better at it, but she didn't spend near as much time as she should have, and she refused to read aloud where anyone could hear. You didn't let anyone see your weaknesses, and that was the way of it.

If Yamela had _liked_ Cavese, perhaps things would have gone differently. Instead, after two years in Tar Valon, Yamela was packed off to a farm again. When she left Avesyne Sedai remarked in private that she really needed to learn to watch her tongue, and expressed a concern that otherwise, a cold fury like Cavese's might crack the stones of the Tower and make it come tumbling down. At that, Yamela had realised that she _liked_ Avesyne Sedai, and shocked both herself and the Mistress of Novices by hugging her before she left.

* * *

_Part 3: New Solutions_

* * *

It was the end of Yamela's third year in the Tower, and after an especially horrible day with an especially obnoxious Accepted, Yamela found herself at kitchen duty again. She had tried to keep her temper – tried! – but an entire bookshelf of books had swept into the air and flapped around like a mob of angry birds until the silly bint of a girl had thought to slam a shield over Yamela. Only, with Yamela already full of _saidar_, she hadn't managed it, and had run screaming out of the room with the books following her, snapping at her hair and dress, while Yamela sat herself on the floor with her head between her hands and tried to make it _stop_.

Unfortunately, kitchen duty didn't make Yamela's mood any better. At least this evening she wasn't alone doing dishes. One of the new Novices was with her; a plump blonde girl with green eyes and a quiet manner whose name Yamela didn't know. Apparently the girl had forgotten to curtsey to some Aes Sedai. They both knew the kitchen chore well and worked together without talking, aside from Yamela's angry mutters.

When she felt the sweet warmth of _saidar_ begin to leak into her she jerked her hands out of the water and grew very still. The water swirled, the piles of plates trembled, and Yamela wondered if running quickly out of the room would help. If she didn't _see_ the dishes, she couldn't very well channel at them, voluntarily or not. Could she?

But a hand slipped into hers, and suddenly she was very aware of the girl beside her. She could _feel_ her, knew how she was tired and wanted to go to bed as soon as possible, knew how her knees ached after scrubbing floors that morning on her hands and knees. She knew the girl was troubled, but also calm, as if there had been a problem and she had just solved it.

The plates were no longer trembling, and the girl, without a word, pulled her hand from Yamela's and returned to work. The light of _saidar_ glowed about her – glowed about them both – and Yamela felt the Source as if from a distance. She felt like a mere link to the Source, and all that Power flowed from her and into the girl.

"What did you do?" she asked hesitantly.

"I linked us," said the girl, glancing up rather shyly. "I'm sorry, I know we're not supposed to touch the Power when we're alone. But you were growing angry, and I thought it was better if you didn't break all the plates. The Mistress of Kitchens would be furious. And I don't know how to make a shield, so I linked us instead."

"You… linked us?" Yamela was baffled. She wasn't surprised that the girl knew of her temper problems; the Novice quarters were nothing if not a gossip central. But _linking_? That wasn't taught to Novices.

"I read about it in a book," the girl said. "It's a technique, not a weave, so I could learn it from reading of it. It's simple. You simply reach for the Source _through_ someone who waits on the brink of surrendering to it."

"But… isn't it supposed to be impossible to link someone without their cooperation?"

The girl nodded. "I suppose when you lose control of the Source, that sort of… doesn't apply."

The odd connection between them told Yamela that the girl felt uncomfortable explaining herself. So Yamela only nodded, and murmured: "Well, thanks, anyhow. You're right about the Mistress of the Kitchens." They worked on in silence, but silence had never been Yamela's strength. "What's your name?"

"Jahra Bartangion," said the girl, glancing up again. "And you're Yamela el'Ferrin. But you're not royalty. You don't have the conduct of royalty."

"I was raised on the streets," Yamela told her. "The name is an old joke. The man who taught me to steal was nicknamed the Brat King, and his name was Ferrin."

"You're a thief?"

"I _was_ a thief," Yamela corrected firmly. "Now I'm a Novice of the White Tower."

"And when you grow angry you lose control of _saidar_, and classrooms explode," Jahra said, and added even more bluntly: "That's why you're still a Novice. That, and you're behind on your other studies."

The link was fortunate; Yamela might easily have taken offence. But there was no malice in the other girl. It had only been a statement of fact. Jahra felt… thoughtful. As if she was considering a dilemma. As if, Yamela realised, she was considering the dilemma of _her_ temper. At once she flushed red; not with anger, but with surprise and indignation. She'd been in the Tower for three years, and this girl, who had to be at least five years younger than her, shows up from nowhere and knows not only how to link, but puts it in her mind to solve _Yamela's_ temper problems?

Yamela wanted to blurt something out, but didn't know where to begin.

"I can help you study, if you like," Jahra said after another few minutes.

Yamela snapped her reply before she could stop herself: "Who says I need help?"

Jahra focused very hard on the plate she was currently scrubbing, and couldn't seem to make herself look up and meet Yamela's gaze. "Avesyne Sedai actually _asked_ me to help you and some of the other girls study. See, I've read a lot before I came to the Tower, so I know my history and geography and so. They've already tested me on it."

Yamela blinked in surprise.

"And when you're angry, I'll link us. That way, your channelling won't run wild." She smiled brilliantly, and Yamela could feel her exuberance. "I can't hold this much on my own, you know. It's really…" She frowned, and the amount of _saidar_ flowing through them both quieted. She sighed. "I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't."

"You're right," Yamela told her, suddenly feeling like an older sister telling a sibling what to do. "You shouldn't. Not yet. But I think you'll be able to, one day."

"I know. Ertina Sedai told me I'd be one of the strong ones." Jahra's smile remained brilliant, and the current of _saidar_ grew again, before she caught herself and limited it.

"You shouldn't talk of strength," Yamela admonished. Through their link, she could feel Jahra flinch back, blushing. So to calm her, Yamela shrugged. "At least, they're always telling us not to. But they tell us a lot of things." She blinked conspiratorially down at the younger girl. "I figure we need to sort the important stuff from the less-important stuff, because if we try to pay attention to all of it we'll go mad."

"Curtseying is apparently important," Jahra said quietly. "I was reading, so I didn't notice when Gunea Sedai entered the room. She was very angry."

"Gunea Sedai is a nagging hag," Yamela commented. "She must have some sort of inferiority complex, the way she goes on about curtseying."

Jahra was appalled. "She's Aes Sedai!"

"So's Cavese Sedai. Met her yet? She's also an old hag. And her nose is so pointy, and so up-in-the-air, that we could use it for a target in horseshoe toss."

Jahra giggled. "We're supposed to show respect for the Aes Sedai."

"Compare Gunea Sedai to Velde Sedai, or Cavese Sedai to Avesyne Sedai. There are Aes Sedai, and there are _Aes Sedai_. I'll respect those who deserve it."

Jahra considered that in a manner which made her look much older than she was. "You're right. Respect should be earned. But we still need to curtsey. We're still Novices."

Yamela nodded glumly. She scrubbed a few more plates, handed them to Jahra to dry off. She was a restless soul, and being a mere Novice was beginning to grind on her nerves. She supposed she had years yet before she earned the ring, however, and even more years before she could hope to reach the shawl, and leave Tar Valon.

Oh, she _would_ reach the shawl, of that she had no doubt. But those years loomed, and they looked very long.

"It's not so bad," Jahra said. Likely she could follow Yamela's moods through the link, just as easily as Yamela could follow hers. "Channelling is wonderful, isn't it? And there are plenty of books."

Yamela laughed. "I never got along that well with books."

"You just haven't met the right ones," Jahra told her firmly. She considered for a moment. "There's a book called _The Escapades and Escapes of Salsyria_, about a thief who terrorized Andor about fifty years ago. She stole jewels from the Queen herself, and it's said when she was caught in Tar Valon and held in the Tower, she escaped by tying together two hundred Aes Sedai shawls and climbing out a window and down the side of the Tower. Would you like to read that?"

Yamela blinked. "There are books about such things?"

"There are books about _everything_," Jahra smiled. "And some of them are useful. Like, the one that told me how to link."

Yamela doubted the link was necessary anymore; she didn't feel the least bit angry. But she didn't mind it, either. It was nice to feel _saidar_'s exuberant flow. If an Aes Sedai walked in and found the two of them glowing with the Power, she supposed they would be in trouble, but at this time of night – when even the Mistress of the Kitchen had retired, complaining of a bad back – that wasn't likely. "I suppose I ought to thank Gunea Sedai for giving you a penance today, Jahra. I might have crashed the entire kitchen, and then they'd likely have sent me to another farm. As if that would help. And I'd be even further behind on my studies. I can't believe they already think you've studied _enough_. How is that, anyway? Were you born with a book in your hands?"

"Well, my aunt used to say so," Jahra murmured, her shyness returned, "but I don't think it's true."

"You could still help me study. And when I grow frustrated and things start flying around the room, I'll give you my hand and you'll link us again?"

Jahra nodded. "Yes. I think the link might even help to calm you. As long as I'm calm."

"That –" Yamela interrupted herself with a sudden great yawn. She was tired, too. The yawn spread through the link, and Jahra yawned just as widely. Yamela grinned, and Jahra presented a shy returning grin. Yamela went on: "That sounds like a better plan than any of the Accepted have come up with. How about we start tomorrow? I'm sick of scrubbing floors and doing dishes, and the sooner I reach the ring and shawl, the sooner I'll be _done_ with stuff like this."

* * *

_Author's Note:_

Please be merciful about eventual errors. I am completely stressed out due to an anatomy/physiology exam on Friday, and instead of studying, this is what I've been doing (thanks to a reviewer who wanted to know how come Yamela and Jahra who are so very different still were friends...). It was an "easy write", but it took me a couple of hours. Thus, I haven't proofread. Not at all. I'm too tired. So tell me if you spot errors and I'll drop by to fix them later.

Yes, I still want to post it now, without proof-reading, instead of after my exam. For some reason I always write when I'm stressed, and I tend to post chapters the very day before an exam (so this time I'm early). And if I wake on the morning of the exam and find cheerful little reviews, I take it as a portent that the exam will go well. Silly of me, but there it is. We all have our little superstitions, don't we?


	23. Yellow: The Warder in the Doorway

**The Warder in the Doorway**

Sathamon Mashuna spent most of two days working himself up to it. His Aes Sedai's custom was to see people jump whenever she snapped her fingers, and while physically they stood eye to eye now, whenever he met her gaze he felt like he was still a little boy. Still, he had to confront her, and putting it off wouldn't improve matters. Again and again, he reminded himself sternly how she wasn't near as mean as she made herself out to be.

He planted himself in the doorway, and in her path. It was evening, and she had been on her way out on one of her less savory hunting forays. She sighed, came to a stately halt before him, and turned her slightly impatient sea-blue eyes on his. "Yes, young Sathamon?"

In an attempt to put her at ease, he spoke respectfully. "I would request a word with you, my Aes Sedai."

"Quickly." Her tone was clipped. She clearly smelled a rat: her expression remained composed, but the bond that gave him the same oppressed feeling as would an iron gate locked before him.

He put his arms up on either doorjamb. Before such a gate, he had to hold his ground. "I don't want you to go without me," he said bluntly.

She made a dismissive little shake of her head. "I don't require your services for the evening. Now, step aside and –"

It would have been so easy to give in, to step aside. It would have felt so _right_. Instead, he clenched his hands tighter about the doorjamb and didn't move, didn't take his gaze from hers. "I'll have my say first."

Her eyes narrowed. Her bond whirled – surprise, indignation – and settled with a purposeful iciness that he knew very well: it was her decision to crush all opposition. Light, but the woman had a mind to her! Meeting her eyes was a challenge, and to meet that bloody bond..!

"What I mean, Talanee Sedai," he went on, and tried to keep his voice steady, "is that I don't want you to go without me _ever again_. Not when you're out looking for trouble. When you face danger, I intend to be beside you. If you won't let me come –"

"Might we have this discussion at a more convenient date, young Sathamon?" It was delivered in a hard, flat voice, and it was not a request.

"We might _not_," he told her, before the sheer force of her will could overcome him. He hurried the words out. "I will accompany you, or you will release me."

Her eyes flared wide. He felt for that knot of emotion in the back of his head, and was pleased to note that the ice had shattered. The pieces whirled in a maelstrom, trying to find some new way to settle, some new decision to make.

He repeated it. It was easier the second time. "Let me come with you, or release me from my bond."

"What makes you think you can make demands like _that_?" She sounded as incredulous as she did angered.

"I don't know how you treated your last Warder, Talanee Sedai, and it's none of my business. But _I_ am your Warder now. I will not agree to sit idle when I should be watching your back. I am your sword and shield, not your house pet."

"_I_ will decide when and if I need you with me, Sathamon," she said coolly. "At the moment –"

"And _I_ will decide if I wish to remain in your service," he countered, just as coolly. He was a Tearen noble's son; it came as naturally to him as it did to her. "Your safety is my responsibility, and whether I'm there or not, my life is at stake as much as yours. You _know_ that. So –"

"Don't _defy_ me, _Gaidin_." There it was again; that way she had of constricting a thunderstorm into a few, quietly delivered words. It set his teeth on edge. "It's not –"

This time, however, he was prepared for it.

"I'm your bonded Warder, Talanee Sedai," he said dryly, "tap the bond, and I'll be a puppet on strings. But I can still think for myself, and I can still say what I think. I believe people who aren't bonded to Aes Sedai call it 'expressing one's opinion'."

"Or 'blackmail'," she snapped. Her eyes were narrowed now, her chin up; both were bad signs. Her bond was solidifying back to ice.

Oh, but he could do _ice_ as well. She wasn't about to bully him out of _this_ doorway. Not _this_ time. He lowered his voice two notches, so that he was almost whispering. The same almost-whisper his lord father had used on puffed-up lesser lords. "The term 'blackmail' would imply that I am threatening to remove something which you wished to keep. If you never bring me with you, then clearly I am of no use to you, and I might as well _not_ be your Warder."

"Sathamon, this –"

He dismissed that with the same curt shake of the head that she so often had used against him. "Will you let me come, will you release me, or…" He narrowed his own eyes, bored them into hers. "…or will you hold me against my will?"

He believed she would not. It was against her principles. Talanee was a great one for principles. He _hoped_ she would not. She had bonded him in part to keep an eye on him; he knew far too much about her and her associates and their battles against the Black Ajah to be let loose. Perhaps, on account of that, she would refuse, and then what? They'd both be unhappy. Their unhappiness would bounce back and forth through the bond, amplifying itself, until… until what? Until one of them snapped? Until he folded beneath the pressure and turned into a meek Warder, or until she changed her mind?

No, Talanee was not a great one for changing her mind. He himself, however… he felt that boy part of him, the boy who emerged to meet her eyes, cower whenever she had a dark thought. It was worse whenever she aimed that thought at him. He didn't know how long he could live beneath her displeasure. He didn't know of any Warder who would want to live outside their Aes Sedai's good graces for very long. It was like having a corner of your mind busy with ruthlessly tearing the rest of you into painful shreds. It was somewhat like being disappointed in yourself, or having a sore conscience, except more visceral; he'd feel it from the throbbing ache behind his forehead and down to the sickening knotting of his gut, the weakening of his knees.

You had to fold beneath such displeasure, fold and give in and beg forgiveness, or it would drive you mad. At least that's what it felt like – he'd never dared test the theory.

She pondered his words for an eternity, her eyes cool like iron in winter. "You've got more than your fair share of nerve."

"And it has always served me well, my Aes Sedai."

"You do realize that I could just tie you up in Air and leave you here?" Talanee asked him, one eyebrow raised.

"You won't," he replied, and aimed for surety. "You could also just tell me not to move until you return, but you won't do that either."

Her smile was frosty. "Are you _certain_?"

He nodded. "You might do it once, but never twice. You're too _decent_ for it. You're a good person, Talanee Sedai, and good people don't do such things."

For a flickering instant, he thought she would rise against that comment, defend herself with something scathing. It flickered past her face, and past her bond, like the crackle of a lightning bolt before it struck. But the instant passed, and instead, her voice softened. Even her bond softened, expressing warmth and a mild surprise. "Sathamon, my dear lad…"

"I'm not a lad anymore, Talanee Sedai," he reminded her. "I'm a grown man. I'm your Warder. I don't want to be anything else, or anything _less_, than your Warder. So by the Light, _let me_. Please."

She studied his face, and the way his grip slackened on the doorjamb as he went from ice to plea. He could almost feel how she prodded the bond for further clues. Well, let her: he had nothing to hide. Not from her.

"I'm serious," he told her softly. "I won't accept being left in my quarters to pace and worry while you're in danger. It's my life at stake, too."

"My last Warder asked me the very same thing," Talanee murmured. "But he asked it only for the once. I… I told him he might come. But he was older, and wiser for it. If you come, young Sathamon, can I count on you to do as you're told?"

"Always, my Aes Sedai," he assured her.

"Very well. This time you may accompany me. For the rest, I shall to take it under consideration. Will that do?"

That was as close to an agreement as he was likely to get out of her. He released the doorjamb, finally, and bowed to her. Then he offered her his arm as a peace gesture. He had no true wish to remain on her bad side. Light, anything but that.

She hesitated, her cool Aes Sedai gaze remaining on his face in a most disconcerting way. Then she gave a dismissive twitch of her head, and took his arm with all grace. They began to walk. "You might have gotten away with this outrageous behavior this once, but don't make a habit of it," she warned him."

"Today was a special case. Most days I'm too much in awe of you to demand even a cup of tea, just like everyone else."

"Are you really..?"

"Oh, yes. But that's a _compliment_, Talanee Sedai."

Her bond said that she was pleased. "Well, lad, I think you have it in you to put 'everyone else' in awe, too. Wherever did you learn to _stare_ like that? I'm sure it's not out of Master Kentrin's tutelage, I know his style."

"I've learned from you, and… from my father."

"Your father was a lord in Tear, wasn't he?"

"He still is," said Sath, and then they were quiet for a couple of steps. Talanee greeted a few passers-by with the barest inclination of her head, and they nodded or curtsied in reply.

Once out of the Yellow quarters, her mood changed. She leaned against him, and through the bond he sensed anxiety. He laid his hand lightly over hers, where it rested on his arm, and she in turn placed her free hand over his and squeezed his fingers.

"Very well, young Sathamon," she said, and now her voice was serious, "let me tell you where we're going…"

. - . - . - . - . - . - . - . - .

_Author's Note:_

I know, I know, I've been a bad fanfic writer who's been AWOL for too long. Let's just say Real Life got in the way of this, my more important stuff, and likely it will continue to. I'm not about to make foolish promises I can't keep on the updates for "Aes Sedai"... it's in progress, but not near done, and I don't really have time to focus on it.

This appears because it was an easy-write, appearing in my head two evenings ago and translocating to paper over a period of a few hours. Thus I post it, somewhat edited, and hope you'll enjoy it, and forgive me for posting so rarely nowadays.


	24. Brown: First Wounding

**First Wounding**

All _ter'angreal_ belonged to the White Tower, so the White Tower always said, but Jored thought that things would have gone much easier if the world outside the Tower had thought the same way. Unfortunately, the world outside the Tower had a rather stringent view on matters of property, and few people saw any need to make an exception for _ter'angreal_. To outsiders, _ter'angreal_ were only items. They didn't always know that they were dangerous, and "it's been in my family for five generations and no one has been hurt, burn it!" was a difficult argument to beat.

Master Khyller, a merchant out of Maradon, had quite a collection of _ter'angreal_. He had three. Two he had only inherited and parted with willingly enough when told what they were and offered a gold coin for his trouble, but the third… it was a brass horse on a leather string, which hung about his neck as an amulet, and he told them it brought him luck. He was _not_ willing to part with it. It had been a gift from his grandmother, and it was _his_.

Jahra explained to him that such was not the case, and she had to take the _ter'angreal_. If he wished to make a formal complaint he would be welcome to Tar Valon to bring his case before the White Tower. While she spoke – which took quite some time – Jored stood at her side and tried to look intimidating. It didn't really come naturally to him. Perhaps it would get easier. This was only his and Jahra's second trip away from Tar Valon.

He still lacked that hardness of manner which let so many more experienced Warders command a room by simple presence, much like their Aes Sedai did. But he did wear his Warder's cloak, and he'd carried a sword since boyhood, which must have showed in his stance. He was clearly a Warder, and Warders had a certain repute for danger. It should take a lot of fool to dismiss him completely. It really should.

So he was wondering how much of a fool this master Khyller was, for master Khyller looked outright rebellious. His two cronies – both the size of smaller cart horses, one with a thick black beard, and one with a very distinct red eye patch – only flexed their muscles and scowled at Jahra as if wondering how her skull would sound when cracked between their hands. None of the three seemed to even have noticed that Jored was there.

Jored rested his palm on the pommel of his sword and watched them, staying very, very still. You could intimidate people by staying very still. Even people the size of small cart horses. People were used to seeing expressions and body language, reading intentions from stance and gesture. If he kept his expression grim and his body still, they would be able to read nothing but a vague air of menace, and it would disquiet them. At least, that was the theory. It didn't seem to be working.

From beneath her dreamy exterior Jahra could draw forth a directness that was little short of plain rudeness. Perhaps her general airiness made her equally airy on the subject of other people's objections to her behavior. There wasn't a mean bone in her, but her manners were at times… obtuse.

So when the merchant, after half an hour of debate, still refused and clutched the amulet tightly, she demonstratively placed a gold coin on his desk. Then she raised a hand, swept his clutching fingers aside with Air, and without further ado took the amulet. She frowned when she touched it, and Jored felt interest and wariness through the bond. Interest was not uncommon, but _wariness_ she reserved for special occasions. Apparently there was something off about the amulet.

The moment Jahra began to turn her back to him, master Khyller lunged for her. Jored's thinking mind dissolved into instant jelly and he reverted to instinct. Before he knew what he was doing he'd planted his hands and shoulder in the low end of the merchant's rib cage and shoved back with all his strength. The merchant staggered and regained his balance by clutching at his desk, and just managed to stop himself before he toppled over.

"Keep your hands off her," Jored told him, and straightened to his full height. His voice came low and hard, unfamiliar to even himself, but you could have wrung an ocean of sincerity out of it. There could be no doubting his meaning. "I will not tell you again."

"She's taking my property!"

Emboldened by their employer's charge, Black-beard and Eye-patch had closed in. Jored nudged Jahra a step back with a light touch on her arm, and held his ground, held master Khyller's gaze. He demonstratively loosened his sword in its sheathe, but then took his hand from the hilt; he wanted to remind the three that it was there, but he had no real wish to draw it, and draw blood. Not if it could be avoided. "She is not –"

"Blight take you," snarled the merchant, going for his dagger.

Jored closed in and grasped the man's wrist to hold it down, not letting him yank the blade free. "_Don't_," he said, with emphasis.

Jahra turned to observe the men, almost curiously. "Be kind to him, Jored. The amulet is a faith-holder, supposed to remind people of things they've forgotten, but this one's flawed. It's likely difficult for him to let go of. He is lucky we found him _now_, and not in ten years' time."

Master Khyller was no fighter, and even though he tugged at his arm to free his wrist, Jored could keep his hold, and easily fend aside the blow that came from the merchant's other hand. He hooked Khyller's leg and gave him another shove, which landed him flat on his back on the floor. Then he backed away two steps, eyes sweeping over the two thugs, who now eyed him more warily. The two were experienced brawlers, no mistake.

But their experience made them vulnerable: they eyed _him_? If his nerves hadn't wound him up so tightly, he might have smiled. He could trip a man, true enough, but any fool with ten minutes in the practice yard could do that. They should really have been keeping their eyes on Jahra. They knew too little of Aes Sedai. Most sisters didn't flaunt their ability to channel, but it was never wise to forget about it. Jahra could have the two of them trussed up in Air before either of them reached him.

_If_ Jahra was in the mood for it. He suspected that she wasn't. Her bond named her thoughtful. Less distracted than usual, perhaps, but not exactly in a combative mind-frame. It just wasn't in her nature.

Perhaps the brawlers had judged the situation correctly, after all.

"You'll feel better in a month or so, master Khyller," Jahra told him calmly, looking at him past Jored's arm. "I suspect you've been sleeping badly, but that was just the amulet. Good day to you."

She turned her back to go a second time.

"Get it _back_!" snarled Khyller.

To their loss, his cronies did as he said. They might have had the sizes of small cart horses, but fortunately they seemed to have the wits of small cart horses, too. Jored, centered in the triangle between Jahra and the two cronies, didn't have much space to move. He cursed himself for letting them corner him, but it was too late to be upset about it. He dove forwards, beneath the grasping arm of Eye-patch, to deliver a hard jab into the man's solar plexus. Eye-patch's own momentum drove him into the blow, and he folded double over Jored's hand. Jored thumped him on the back of the head, swept his leg, and let him fall flat on his face. Himself, he was already reaching for Black-beard's shirt – Black-beard was closing in on Jahra.

Jahra only stood there, her serene frown in place, her bond disapproving but not distressed. She appeared perfectly unaware that someone was about to offer her violence.

Jored caught hold of the scruff of Black-beard's shirt, then yanked and kicked smartly at the back of Black-beard's knee. The leg folded and Black-beard thumped down atop Eye-patch, while the back of his head cracked hard into the planking. Eye-patch, who had been about to clamber up, grunted and smacked into the wooden floorboards a second time.

The struggles of the two men – now both conveniently knocked on the head by the floor – varied between drunken and dazed, and Jored figured they'd be down for at least the two or three minutes it would take him to bring his Aes Sedai out of immediate harm's way. The entire matter had been surprisingly simple. Slightly dizzy with exhilaration – simple or not, this was much more nerve-wrecking than plain practice ever had been – Jored withdrew and –

And jerked aside just in time to avoid master Khyller's knife. It came from behind him, and would have speared his kidney had he not moved. Instead it stabbed into his hip. Pain shot up his side and down his leg like a sudden wild-fire, turning his muscles to jelly. That entire side wanted to collapse. But in his head he felt Jahra's bond react with shock, and the emotive change landed like a whiplash across his consciousness. His hip was irrelevant; he had to protect his Aes Sedai.

He caught the dagger-holding hand before it could withdraw, and locked it between his arm and side to hold both the knife and his foe in place. He twirled backwards with his other shoulder leading, to slam his elbow into the merchant's furious face. As hard as he could. Pain and Jahra's shock had converted to fury, and he'd slammed his elbow a second time into master Khyller's face before he realized that the first blow had been enough, and Khyller was already folding like a rag doll, his nose flattened and his face splattered with blood.

He dropped the merchant, took Jahra firmly by the elbow, and swept her out of the store. Jahra didn't protest. Not for about twenty steps. Then… "Jored – Jored, you're bleeding." She put her small hands to his chest to halt him. "Stop, you're –"

The bond still conveyed the same shock with which it had first responded to his pain.

He looked down at his hip. Oh, blood was running down his leg, but it wasn't as bad as it had first felt like. He could move freely, after all, and the blood had a healthy bright red colour, not the darker red of cut inner organs. He figured it had pierced skin but not much more. Still, it burned something awful now that he paused to consider it. And it made him angry. Such a foolish mistake. How could he have let an untrained merchant get the better of him? Foolish, foolish. He should have been _aware_ of master Khyller. He should have been as aware of him as he'd been of the two cronies. Awareness was half the victory, said the Tower's Master at Arms.

_Forgetting_ was definitely a losing strategy, as he had just been demonstrated.

"You're in pain," Jahra said, and avoided his eyes. "Jored, I'm –" She hesitated, swallowed what she had been about to say, and her bond steeled itself. Out came a more controlled, "Let me see."

"It's skin and muscle, nothing serious," Jored told her. Then grimaced when she gave the wound an experimental prod with her finger. Her touch had been feather-light as she'd lifted the thin cloth of his tunic aside to see better, and so were the weaves of Air and Water she used to swab the blood away for a better look. Her finger, though, _prodded_. "You could have helped, you know."

"I couldn't have," Jahra said, staring at the bleeding cut over his hip as if staring at it might help it go away. "I can't use the Power as a weapon."

He held his arm out of the way to give her a better view, but that stretched his side and the pain made him adjust his posture again. "You could have wrapped one up in Air."

"Not if the purpose was to hold them still for you to stab them, no, I don't think I could."

Jored stared at her. "For me to stab –? Jahra, I wouldn't stab someone unless I had to. If you tie them up, I don't have to, do I?"

She frowned. "No, I suppose you don't. In that case, then… yes, I could have tied them up."

"Besides, aren't you supposed to be able to use the Power to defend yourself and your Warder?"

"Yes." She prodded the edge of the cut **again**, still avoiding his eyes.

He tried to moderate his voice, but standing there contemplating the pain in his side seemed to enhance it. His voice came out rather ragged. "Please, just Heal it."

"Are you sure it's just –"

"Yes, it's skin and muscle, nothing advanced. It'll be fine."

She wove the Healing weave and he shuddered when it sank into him. Being Healed by Jahra never felt quite as icily gut-jerking as being Healed by many of the Yellows – who were far better at it – but it still felt like a bucket of cold water splashed over his head. He peered down at his hip. The cut had closed, and left a thick pink line. The scar would be worse when Jahra did the Healing, too. She just wasn't very good at it. Fortunate for him that it had been a simple cut. If there were nerves or larger blood vessels to knit together – not to mention anything even more vital – Jahra's skills fell short. He wasn't certain what, exactly, would happen if she tried to Heal, say, a stab through the kidney, but he didn't imagine it would be pleasant. He'd asked a Yellow once, but she had given him an arrogant, highly unsatisfactory answer that he'd only half understood. From what he gathered, the tissue would all knit together and the bleeding would stop, but he might lose sensation over the nearby skin, and that kidney would likely never work again. Joints would heal stiff. Large blood vessels would squeeze together and the area dependent on that vessel's flow would suffer from the loss. She had said something about how scar tissue was less functional than the original, and the more complex an organ, the more its function suffered from scarring. With just skin and muscle it wasn't that bad. The skin would lose elasticity, muscles would knot, but muscles and elasticity could be trained back.

He flexed his side. It was slightly stiffer than he was used to, but nothing alarming. And it was nice not to be hurting.

_Hurting_. His focus shifted from his side, to the bond; to his Aes Sedai. She was looking at him. The bond was… anxious. He wondered if that emotion had been there a moment ago. Could he have missed something so obvious, just because…

"What's wrong?" he asked her.

"You're right," she said, flustered, placing both hands lightly on his arm and looking up at him. "I – I could have used the Power. It's just… I didn't think of it. I didn't think it was necessary. I didn't _think_ I could, as I didn't feel in danger."

His eyebrows shot up. "Jahra, when a man the size of a small cart horse comes at you like that, you _should_ feel in danger."

"But I didn't. You seemed to have them well in hand. So I just…" She gave a small, helpless shrug, folding her gaze down. "Please don't be angry with me."

"Angry with you?" he repeated, eyebrows achieving new heights of astonishment.

"Yes. You feel so angry."

"I'm – Jahra, I'm angry with myself, for getting hurt," he told her. "For not being careful. I'm not angry with you."

"You're not?"

"Not at all."

"But you said – about how I didn't help, you said –"

"Never mind what I said," he interrupted. He took her hands between his and squeezed them, then raised one of them to his face and kissed her knuckles. That made her smile, hesitantly, and he gave her hands another squeeze and kept hold of them. "I'd never say no to a bit of help, Jahra. But you're not a combative sort, and it wouldn't be fair of me to demand that of you."

Her bond was still in an upheaval. A touch frightened, a touch worried, a touch ashamed, and very much concerned. "Be careful, then, my _Gaidin_," she murmured. "I don't want you hurt."

"Jahra, this won't be the last time," he said softly. "You'd best get used to me being hurt. I'll be careful when I can, but I won't always be able to watch out for myself, it's _you_ I need to…" Her bond twitched, as if that had stung. He changed tactics. "It wasn't that bad anyhow. I didn't think much about it until you stopped me." He smiled at her. He knew how she appeared to others; a typical distracted Brown, secluded away with her books, unaware of and uncaring for the world, blind to the moment and stuck in the past. There was that side to her, yes. He was certain he could look forward to long years – hopefully many long years – of pulling her out of dangers she hadn't even seen. But he saw her other side, too. He saw the side that cared too much. The side that was distraught because he'd spilled a few drops of blood.

And his attempt to talk it aside was not working. He let his smile die. "I'll be careful," he told her soberly. "I promise."

She seemed to accept that.

* * *

_Author's note_:

This was just a thought I had. Wounds? Well, some time has to be the the first, and I'm sure it could be something of a shock to the Aes Sedai - or to the Warder, if it's the other way around. (As seen in Jored's chapter of "Warders", years later Jahra still responds with shock, but as Jored said; Jahra isn't a combative type. There's always that inferno she sets off in "Aes Sedai", but I figure Anthared spurred her to that, and it wasn't very well done, was it? Burning your own clothes and hair and eyebrows just doesn't give a good impression.)

The last chapter... Sath, more grown up. I know a couple of you were wondering who he would end up Warder to. How many predicted Talanee?

I'm currently working on another Talanee tale, but one set much further back in the chronology, while Sarnon is still her Warder. One which brings up more of Talanee's background, and another acquaintence from previous chapters. Let's see if I can surprise you there with who and what they're up to (I don't think I can, but it's worth a shot).

Thank you everyone who has reviewed. I do try to reply to reviews if they contain questions (that is, if they're signed so I can send a pm), and if I missed you you have my permission to yell at me. Even if I don't reply to all of them, know that they're appreciated. Every time I read one I smile.


	25. Yellow: To Be Content

**To Be Content**

Talanee had travelled south to visit two of her retired mentors, Jenova and Kodyn, who lived together not far from the border to Amadicia. When she arrived, she found a third sister in the house; Feyon Velmar of the Green. The sight of her challenged Talanee's mastery of expression; it was all she could do to keep her jaw from dropping. Feyon Velmar was shockingly pregnant. The two old Yellows told Talanee that Feyon had passed her due date with four days. As a result, her temper was… Greener than usual.

When Talanee first arrived she was shown into the sitting room and came upon Feyon, a small, roundish woman with dimples and curly blond hair, being walked around by her Warder, who hovered within arm's reach as if she might at any moment fall. To his defence, she did sway alarmingly at every step, but at the Warder's first effort to steady her she swiped at his arm and exclaimed; "Burn it, Dakeel! I'm pregnant, not bloody porcelain!"

"She's been saying that since they arrived," whispered Kodyn into Talanee's ear. An amused croak of a whisper.

"My apologies, Feyon Sedai," murmured the Warder in humble response, and bowed deeply. But at so formal an address the Aes Sedai flinched as if he'd struck her. Tears welled in her eyes.

"He's been replying like that since they arrived," cackled Jenova. "Always makes the girl hush up and let him help her. But the last week she's gone teary-eyed for it, too."

"Feyon, dearest," Kodyn said, walking up to the younger woman and taking her arm firmly. The Warder gave the old Yellow a thankful look and pulled back. "Come. We have a visitor."

Only then did Feyon notice Talanee. She made a clumsy attempt to curtsey – Feyon was hardly middling strong when it came to the Power – and said, "Good day, Talanee." Then she straightened up and placed a hand protectively – or perhaps proudly – over her swollen belly. The gesture provoked comment.

And Talanee of course commented. "I assume your Warder is the father?"

"He's also my husband," Feyon said. She spoke softly, but it was a very Green softness. It was, Talanee decided, the same softness any Green might use to subtly remind herself, and warn her surroundings, that she was Battle Ajah, and feared no conflict.

Many a teenager would act the same way if caught out past their curfew. _Greens._

"Your husband, then," Talanee said, "is the father. That at least is to the good."

Feyon's face flushed red, with anger or shame Talanee couldn't tell, and before she'd made up her mind Kodyn had turned the Green to walk a different direction, and Jenova had awarded Talanee with a glare fit to set the house on fire.

Talanee did her best to ignore how that glare still made her cheeks want to flush as if she'd still been nothing but an Accepted. She was Aes Sedai in her own right now, and stronger by far than Kodyn and Jenova put together, but old habits were hard to break.

"She's not you, Talanee," Jenova chided lowly. "You can't judge her actions by your morals. You must realise that she might have her own, and they must not necessarily correspond to yours."

Talanee nodded. She looked up to study Feyon, discreetly trying to clear her mind of prejudice – of her own morals. It wasn't easy. To be Aes Sedai was a calling that left no room for children. To aim for both was to fail at both. It would not be fair to the Tower, and it would not be fair to the child. That last thought roiled within her and would not let go; her prejudices won.

Sarnon's presence in the back of her mind did not help. From him, she fel disapproval. He – loaded with their saddle bags – had come in behind them, in time to hear the exchange about who was the child's father. She knew Sarnon's opinion of such things; he thought a Warder was deeply enough emotionally invested in his Aes Sedai without adding romance into the equation. It would, he had once said, be too much of a distraction. Talanee tended to agree. Commitment and dedication were one thing; romance another. What if that romance turned sour? What if it got in the way of an Aes Sedai's work? A Warder was after all a tool, one you might lose at any time, and too much sentiment would make that more difficult.

Then she felt Sarnon's emotions shift as he, too, made an effort of will to dismiss his judgement. Ingrained bone-deep into him was the thought that what went on between a Warder and an Aes Sedai was no one else's business. He was right: it was not his, nor was it Talanee's, place to either meddle or judge.

Even though she had to bite down hard on her tongue to manage it. Her thoughts she let roil; if she could keep them from her face and from passing her lips, that had to be enough.

Too late now, anyway, she told herself. Too late by nine months and more.

She turned to Sarnon. "Take those bags to our rooms, please, Sarnon. Do we have the same guest room as the last time, Jenova?"

"Yes, yes, up the stairs and directly to the right," said the old Yellow, and then aimed a beaming smile at Feyon. "But isn't it adorable, Talanee? Too few of us ever carry children. I'm so happy for the ones that do."

Talanee responded with a non-committing murmur. She couldn't very well lie and say that she agreed, now could she?

.-.-.-.

She had apparently come to visit her old tutors at the wrong time. Feyon's labours had begun in earnest that very morning, and Kodyn and Jenova would speak of nothing else. They and the Warder, Dakeel, took it in turns to walk a more and more sweaty Feyon around the sitting room, encouraging her whenever the contractions seized her. They were waiting for those contractions to come closer together, and the two retired old Aes Sedai kept muttering between themselves about how to help the process along.

Talanee had tried to withdraw, but the house wasn't big enough to pretend that nothing was going on. Sarnon had retreated outside to tend the horses, but Talanee found herself drawn back to the sitting room. If nothing else, she could listen to Kodyn and Jenova discuss different ways to ease pain, to reinforce contractions, to pause a labour. She herself hadn't assisted at many enough births to have much experience with how the Power could help. She'd Healed a few women who'd started bleeding once the birth was done, but the use of the Power on a small child was a dangerous thing, and to simply toss a Healing weave over a woman near her time would be paramount to killing the child. It just wasn't done.

It seemed there were subtler weaves one could use, though, and despite herself Talanee's interest was peaked. She'd likely enough never have use of them again, but she was curious.

Sarnon – Light shine on the man – took it upon himself to cook, and out of nowhere appeared with beet soup and generously buttered slices of yesterday's bread – she supposed it was yesterday's bread, for as far as Talanee knew, Sarnon couldn't bake. Sarnon, Talanee, Kodyn, and Jenova ate well, while Feyon had only a few spoonfuls. Feyon's Warder seemed too agitated to manage even that much.

As noon became a memory and the afternoon grew late, though, Talanee's two old tutors progressed to other discussions. They discussed Dakeel, pointing out to Talanee what a fine young lad he was. Talanee listened with half an ear and nodded when appropriate. The two were happy enough nattering to each other, she didn't really need to comment, even though they meant their tales for her ears.

"Now when I was a Novice, there was a young stable hand called Cojen who had a smile for anything with a skirt. A pretty smile it was, too, and anything with a skirt smiled happily back at him, now didn't we, Jenova?"

"That we did, Kodyn."

"Did you, now?" Talanee murmured non-committingly, to which both of her tutors nodded earnestly.

"Then one day he was questioned by the Mistress of Novices about an – ah – intimate relationship with one of the Novices, and he confessed and was sent away."

Jenova bobbed her head in agreed remembrance. "That he was."

"Then again, Enlera Sedai could have made the night confess to kidnapping the sun. She was a hard one, wasn't she, Jenova?"

"Enlera Sedai was a terror, right you are, Kodyn. They're too soft with the girls nowadays. Too soft, I say."

"Too soft, and right you are, Jenova dear." Kodyn sighed. "But I still say it was Cojen who made me Yellow. I would have been a Green, you know."

Talanee blinked in surprise.

"I know, dear," said Jenova and patted her friend's arm.

"When Enlera was done with me, I swear, I couldn't sit for a month. And I can't lie," Kodyn cackled, winking at Talanee, "so it has to be true since I said it, hasn't it?"

"I think it was longer," Jenova murmured. "You were still limping two months after."

"Yes, I was, now wasn't I?"

"At least two months," Jenova repeated and nodded.

"Ah, Cojen. I loved his smile, Light knows I did, but when he told Enlera Sedai of me I wanted to box his ears. With a _cudgel._ He had promised he would take me away, hadn't he, Jenova?"

"So you always said."

"He'd promised me a farm and chickens. Chickens, and cows. Of my very own. And lots of little smiling children." She sighed. "Instead he taught me men can't be trusted. By the time I was over that, I was already in retirement!"

"You never even took a Warder," Jenova muttered. "You should have listened to me and taken a Warder, Kodyn. It would have saved you a lot of trouble over the years, wouldn't it have? Wouldn't you agree, Talanee?"

"They have their uses," Talanee agreed.

"Oh, hush, Jenova. Enough nagging about those damn Warders! Never wanted one, never needed one. You should be glad I didn't choose the Red!"

"Red? Red!" Jenova huffed. "Reds need hearts of stone after all those years of condemning men to slow deaths. You wouldn't have lasted a month. You've a heart of gold, Kodyn, that you do. I've always said it, always will. A heart of gold. Soft as gold, too."

Talanee murmured her apologies and left the two aged women to their nattering. They hardly noticed that she went to relieve Dakeel of Feyon. Feyon looked surprised when Talanee offered her her arm, but didn't protest. She leaned rather heavily on Talanee as they walked on. Her breathing was laboured, and sweat shone on her brow.

"I thought you didn't approve," Feyon muttered to her.

"I don't," Talanee said bluntly. "But it isn't my choice, or my business."

"You're right about that, Yellow. It's not."

It hardly took a few minutes before another contraction folded the little Green almost double over her swollen belly, her scream bitten back between her clenched teeth. To the side, her Warder started and set a hand to his gut as if someone had stabbed him there. His eyes were wild as he turned them on his Aes Sedai.

"Sorry, Dakeel," Feyon panted. "I… I sort of lost my grip."

Ah. She must have been masking the bond to spare her Warder the pain. And now the mask had failed. Judging by Dakeel's reaction, Talanee had another reason to be glad she had never felt drawn to the follies of childbearing. Apparently, it hurt.

Dakeel looked dazed, wavering on the verge of approaching his Aes Sedai, and holding back, likely on the sound reasoning that there was little he could do.

Talanee gave him a scathing look to encourage him toward the latter. He had certainly done enough already. Maybe this would teach him a lesson.

Sarnon appeared again, Light shine on the man. "Come on," he urged, and slung an arm firmly about Dakeel's shoulders. "Let the women handle this their way, and we'll handle it the men's way. We'll go get drunk. That's what my sister's man always does when she's…" His voice faded into the distance as he led a dazed Dakeel away, and disappeared beneath the groan that escaped Feyon as another contraction hit her.

Talanee had to hold the Green up to keep her from folding right to the floor. Jenova and Kodyn were there at once, happily commenting and beginning to usher Feyon towards the guest room they had prepared for the day's main event.

.-.-.-.

It was not an easy birth, and Feyon could be thankful to have Jenova and Kodyn nearby. Talanee admitted, even to herself, that she was of little use. When the two older Aes Sedai began tiring, she offered her great strength of Power for them to use in a circle, but they did all the work, and she… observed… still fighting her prejudices. The entire process made her feel… what was the expression? "Green about the gills".

She hoped Feyon understood the consequences. Here she would bring a child to the world, to a mother whose foremost duty lay ever elsewhere, and a father whose life and soul was already bound. Here she would bring a child into the world, and surely love it, and then one day outlive it, as Aes Sedai outlived almost everything. She would suffer the pain of loss, Talanee imagined, as keenly as she would suffer the pain of losing her Warder. Why add so to her own eventual misery? There was a reason Aes Sedai withdrew from the world, and it was to keep from growing mad as the world died around them. Family, friends, all would grow old and die, before an Aes Sedai had even fully grown into her shawl. Customs and places would change, and…

Only the Tower remained. Only the Tower was certain, was safety, was their home and haven. The Tower accepted Warders, yes. Even Warder husbands. But the Tower would never have place for a child.

Talanee supposed that Feyon had no intention of returning to the Tower all that soon. Perhaps not for the next twenty years. Perhaps she had her work here – some Green Ajah business which she was unlikely to specify if asked, nor even if asked and pushed. Perhaps there would be room in that place, that life, for this family she craved.

As she watched the younger woman's labours, she began to hope so. Light, she found herself praying, let this pain not be for nought. Perhaps Feyon was foolish to combine a life as Aes Sedai with a life as wife and mother, but was it not said that only the greatest of fools ever achieved the impossible, for they did not have the sense to know it was impossible? Light, let it not be for nought, and let it not be impossible. Just this once.

.-.-.-.

The babe was finally brought forth and handed to Talanee by an ecstatic Kodyn, who was just wiping the child down with a warm, wet towel, and had Talanee help her hold it while she wrapped it in its bundle. Even beneath the blood it was red-faced and screeching its little lungs out, sounding much like its sojourn into Creation was coming to a brutal end, not only just beginning.

Its bright eyes were visible only for the moments between when its face scrunched up for each focused scream. But Talanee looked into them, and for the first time, wondered at what she was missing. She had never considered being anything but Aes Sedai, not since she learned she could channel, and she had been but a girl then. She had never considered family, or becoming a mother, or even taken a man for a lover. Her childhood had given her no good impressions of any of the three, and she had never missed them.

She had the One Power, and she had her work, and she had the loyal company of her Warder, a man she knew would never drink and stagger home late, and… and never beat her. No, he would never do that, she was quite certain. But she still remembered her mother's muffled late-night screams. She still remembered her mother's tears and broken heart when her father had disappeared. She never learned what had happened to him – one night, he had just not come home, and had never been seen again.

In Talanee's opinion, that had been the best thing he had ever done for his family.

No, she had never missed the chance to have a family. She had never understood the will of some women to share their choices with some man, and to dedicate their lives to some blabbering child.

But looking down into those bright little eyes, something touched the depths of Talanee's soul, and suddenly… she wanted to understand. She tried to understand.

Carefully she wiped the child dry – careful with the head, as Kodyn reminded her urgently – and returned it to the mother. And another piece of the puzzle fell into place when Feyon smiled at the little bundle. That smile encompassed a devotion unlike any Talanee had ever seen.

It made her uneasy. She quietly slipped out of the room.

Hovering outside the door was the Warder, Dakeel. His eyes had gone from anxious and pained to grinning happy, his joy a mirror image of Feyon's. His expression and the smell on his breath revealed how he was more than a little inebriated, but he was still on his feet, and though he swayed he was in control of himself.

"You may go inside," Talanee told him.

He hastily garbled some sign of respect, bowed his way past her, and all but ran into the room. She caught a glimpse of him folding to his knees by Feyon's side before the door closed behind him.

She went across the hall, up the stairs, into her own chamber. Sarnon watched her approach with his head slightly to the side. He, too, had been drinking, but not nearly so much. He was more relaxed than usual, but still perfectly steady. "Why so uncomfortable?" he asked her.

"Never you mind," she told him, and gave him a sharp look.

He raised his hands in a defensive gesture, folding his gaze down to show his submission. But his eyes followed her as she made her way to the sofa and sat down. Her apron was blood-stained, and her hands… she studied her bloodied fingers. Childbirth, she decided again, was a messy process, and she was still glad enough to have had no first-hand experience of it. She was. Judging from Feyon's screams – and Dakeel's reaction – it hurt, too. She'd known that, of course. She'd seen birthings before. Yet with an Aes Sedai as mother it hit closer to home. Usually she could dismiss it as something that happened to women who couldn't channel. She and her ilk were above such menial matters. This time she couldn't.

It didn't matter. The entire process… carrying and bringing forth a child that you then had to care about the rest of your life… hardly seemed worth it. Especially not for a woman whose life was already dedicated to the Tower.

Until you noticed the bliss on Feyon's face. When had the Tower ever brought such bliss? There was a piece of Feyon now that would walk and breathe and think on its own. There was something of her that would carry on after she was gone… or, perhaps, who would die before her and leave a scar in her soul, as Feyon would likely live a long time. Still, the bliss could not be denied.

It was plain mother's instinct, Talanee told herself. The same instinct that dogs and horses and cows and birds had. It was an irrational thing, to love your child no matter who the child became or what they did.

But love was always an irrational thing. Her mother had loved her father, had she not? For all the good it had ever done her. She had loved her children, too. For all the good that had done her. At least one had died – and Talanee had run away from home before she knew what happened to the others. No, her mother had likely had little joy in loving her children.

"My sister says it's worth it," Sarnon said softly.

"Your sister?" she echoed, and carefully smoothed her face before she met his gaze.

"The children," he said. "My sister says they're worth it. My sister Sarame, I mean. You've met her."

Talanee had met her; she was a seamstress in Tar Valon. Her brood numbered… what was it now? Five, six? All girls except for one, she knew that much. "I know her," Talanee agreed. Sarame had sown two of her riding habits. "Why bring her up now?"

Her Warder gave her a look that named her question unnecessary, that said she knew perfectly well why he had brought it up, and she ought to know that he knew, too.

She stood up, swishing over to the wash basin. She fought the knot on the apron at the small of her back, very aware of the knot of emotions in her head; he always understood too much, did Sarnon. She couldn't understand him half as well as he seemed to read her. At the moment his bond wavered, as if he was considering approaching and helping her with the apron, but then it settled. Again, that understanding. He knew that she didn't really want to be approached right then. How did he know such things? He sensed discomforts that she did her best to hide even from herself. Sometimes she could read her own emotions more from his response to them than from her own consciousness.

The knot came free. Talanee hung the apron over the back of a chair, and seized the soap, beginning vigorously to rub her hands. Even when they were clean, she felt… dirtied. She wiped them just as vigorously on a towel, and faced her Warder.

"What would you have me do, then, if it's so 'worth it'?" she snapped. "Am I to start popping out little screaming bundles, too?"

Sarnon raised his hands in that defensive gesture again. "No… please. I meant no disrespect. I meant nothing by it at all. I only… thought to explain."

"Explain _what?"_ iced Talanee, again in full control of her various emotive expressions.

He eyed her warily for a moment, then bowed. "Talanee Sedai, I know you too well to attempt to reason with you when you use that tone. If you'll excuse me, I think I'll go see to the horses."

That total lack of resistance deflated her. As he turned, she felt her anger run off her like water off a well-oiled saddle. "No, Sarnon," she said. He paused, and she went back to the sofa, sitting herself down. "Come. Sit with me."

He came and sat. He leaned back in his seat. He did not look at her, he did not need to; he probably studied her bond where it nestled in the back of his head, revealing her every emotion and sensation. It was a scrutiny of the most intimate kind.

Was it worth it, to have someone know your deepest, most intricate emotions? She had doubted it, often. She felt very exposed whenever Sarnon _did not _look at her like that. But she could read his bond in response, and despite her misgivings about letting someone view her internal workings, for fear of… of what? Rejection? Ridicule? She didn't rightly know. Despite her misgivings, what his bond relayed in response was always a wary respect. Almost a sort of pride. He'd once told her that she looked like a swan at ease, even when her insides were churning. Who else could have offered her such a compliment?

"It is not for me," Talanee said finally. "Whatever it is, whatever it might be worth, it was never something I wanted. Never something for me." This day she had experienced a grain of doubt, and it ate at her. But it ate at her more because she might have been wrong about something, and less because it was something for her. The doubt was already beginning to ease and her mind could settle into certainty.

"As you say, Talanee Sedai."

"And… you, Sarnon?"

"Me?" His eyes opened wide as he faced her.

"Yes. Do you regret never having the chance for children?"

He closed his eyes again and leaned back. "No…" he said slowly. "My sister is glad enough to let me share hers, whenever I visit. They are a handful. I love them dearly, mind, but they are a handful."

"So you wouldn't want your own?"

"No, Talanee Sedai," he said again. "I am content. You know that I am content."

"I suppose I do."

"And I know that you are right. This is not something for you. You, too, are content."

To hear it from him, he who knew her so frighteningly well, somehow made her feel better. He, of course, would know that. "I suppose I am."

.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.

_Author's Note:_

As always, please review. Such things make me happy.

Next up will be - if the writing goes as planned - a Green chapter. Yes, it will be the one detailing how Yamela acquired her twins. You know you've been waiting for it. I promise poisonings, prisons, presumptious bribery, and naturally: provoked-to-violence Anthared.


	26. Green: Telling Them Apart ::1::

**Telling Them Apart**

_.-.-.-._

_Part 1_

.-.-.-.

She was left by Atherie Sedai in the southern reaches of Ghealdan. Atherie's second Warder had come galloping up as if he'd had a pack of Darkhounds at his heels, and after a few quick words Atherie shouted a final instruction and spurred her horse away.

Which left Yamela alone in the snowfall, near a little town called Wesseron. Certainly, she knew what to do. She had been reviewed on the situation and given detailed instructions on what their role in Wesseron would be, but she'd expected to follow an experienced Aes Sedai around, not to carry out the entire affair on her own.

Well. She soothed her mare – the animal pawed the ground and snorted and wanted to follow Atherie's destrier. Yamela took heart, reminding herself that she wasn't completely alone; she had Anthared. Anthared wasn't new to the ways of the world, or to the actions of Aes Sedai.

"Well." She watched the departing Atherie until the falling snow had made her nothing but a distant, dark shadow. "I suppose there's nothing for it but to get this over with."

"As you say, Yamela Sedai," Anthared agreed with a formal nod.

"I've got saddle sores big enough to house dinner parties," she muttered. "Let's begin by finding a decent inn."

They dismounted when they passed the town gate, and Yamela took the horses' reins while Anthared prowled at her shoulder. Despite his age he still moved like a hunting cat, lithe and fierce. So many strangers in her close proximity made him nervy, and the feeling leaked through the bond to prod at her own equanimity. She tried her best to ignore it and focused outward instead of inward, but outward wasn't much more comforting. The snow had grown heavy, and the darkness deep: a sickle moon shone above but offered little illumination, and the street lamps fluttered weakly yellow and red.

And it didn't take long before her Warder leaned in toward her ear and informed her that they were being followed.

"Atherie told me to expect that," Yamela replied, and steadied the excited thrill that scurried up her spine with a deep breath. "Bring whoever it is to me."

Anthared slipped quietly into a shadow. She felt exposed without him at her shoulder, but she could still sense him through the bond and knew he wouldn't go far. He wouldn't let himself lose sight of her. She kept on walking, hand on the hilt of the sword she carried, horses trailing behind. She was clad in her stoutest winter riding habit, fur-trimmed green wool with embroidery at the cuffs and up her arms, and fine leather gloves over her fingers. Though modest by Aes Sedai standards she felt well-dressed and elegant. It was easy to feign confidence.

Anthared's bond told her when he had completed his task. She dropped the horses' reins – and they stopped right where they were, one of them snorting in surprise. Yamela stepped into a side alley and waited. A moment later Anthared nudged past the horses and came in after her, dragging a teenage girl by the scruff of her neck.

"_This_ was following you," Anthared informed her, shoving the girl in between them.

"Was she, now?" murmured Yamela, wrapped in her best Aes Sedai cool. She snapped her fingers to call forth a globe of white light, better to see the girl's expression. The girl's eyes locked on the globe of light, wary like a hare spotting a fox, but not surprised. So she had known who – or at least what – she had been shadowing, had she?

"I'm not going to hold you for long, girl," Yamela said, and was pleased to see how the girl's eyes snapped from the light and to her face. "You can even run along and make your report about me, just as planned, as long as you don't mention this conversation. But how much are they paying you?" She held up a gold coin between two of her knuckles. "And how much is it worth to keep their secrets?"

At the sight of the gold, the girl's eyes widened, but she was too stunned to speak.

Yamela made a twitching motion of her hand, and let the gold coin disappear into her sleeve. When her hand emerged again, she had instead a silver coin between each pair of knuckles. "I know the possession of a gold coin would be difficult for you to explain," she said kindly, "but silver might do, wouldn't it? If you hide them, use them sparingly, no one will suspect a thing. Or do you prefer coppers?"

The girl had made up her mind. "Silver's fine, milady. And as long as I can still make my report later, I'll tell you whatever you need to know."

Yamela nodded, and held out a handful of silver coins. "Be warned, girl, I'll be very upset if you lie to me. Who sent you?"

"His name's Yemerry," the girl informed her, and quickly snatched the coins and let them disappear into various pockets. "In the afternoons you'll find him drinking at _The Hallowed Hand_. He put out word that any well-dressed lady coming to town, and especially anyone with a ring like that one there –" she pointed to Yamela's Great Serpent ring, which she wore on a chain about her neck instead of letting it compete with her gloves for space "– was of interest and he wanted to know where they went, who they spoke to, what they did."

"Who is this Yemerry working for?"

"Whoever pays him," scoffed the girl, as if this should be obvious.

"And who is paying him this time?"

The girl hesitated.

"There's always word of who's pulling crew strings," Yamela said, dropping back into a drawling style of speech which she had hardly used in over a decade. "Nothing runs in a town without the alley business having word. What's word this time?"

The girl considered her very carefully. Finally she twitched her head to the side in a way that conveyed the importance of what she said. "Word is Masseya saw Yemerry take the glitter from captain Parrim. Course, Masseya's been into the green fairy stuff, and she ain't solid. But Yemerry's been at some sweeter wines this month, and I'd say someone on the high's been glittering him. It sure ain't folk from the alley business."

"Good girl," Yamela smiled. "What's your name?"

"I'm Rosly," said the girl.

"A lie."

"So what if it is? It's as good a name as any."

"If I ask for a Rosly, will I find you?"

"Depends on who you ask, don't it? Some might call me Rosly. Some might call me Jenniel. Some might call me Pet."

"And what do you call yourself?"

"Depends on who I'm talking to, don't it? Right now I call myself Rosly."

"Very well, Rosly. You may go."

Rosly disappeared into the snow and shadows almost as easily as Anthared could have.

"Was that wise?" Anthared asked softly.

"Wise, perhaps not, but easy."

"Too easy. How could you trust a gutter runner like that?"

Yamela shrugged. "I don't trust her, but I do understand her. I used to be like her." She made her way out of the alley, picked up the horses' reins, and continued along the road with Anthared again at her shoulder. "Is she still shadowing us?"

"Yes."

"Smart girl."

"You _approve_?"

"Of course I approve. She isn't about to drop her ties to Yemerry just because I've put her in my pocket. Smart of her. Yemerry is her daily source of work, I'm just a chance occurrence. She _needs_ him. And as for me, I feel better when I know who is following me. If she hadn't stuck to it, they'd just have sent someone else."

"Atherie Sedai mentioned this… captain Parrim. He's the Magistrate's right-hand man."

"Exactly." Yamela felt like purring. She was beginning to enjoy this. Being left without Atherie's supervision was not all bad.

"So… tomorrow, we go to see this Magistrate?" Anthared guessed.

"Oh no, we need to make him nervous first. Tomorrow we stroll around the markets and make certain we are seen. We'll drink tea with some prosperous merchants and talk to anyone important in this city who _isn't_ connected to the Eyes and Ears. We'll make it two days if we aren't seen enough. We'll look for Dakenya Allar and her sister, but if it's as Atherie suspects, we won't find her. The day after that, we inspect – in an official manner – the local prisons and courts. Hopefully we'll find mistress Allar then, but we won't make much of a fuss about it. We'll sit in on a few judgments instead. That will earn us an invitation to see the Magistrate. That's when we'll meet him."

"You actually think he'll invite us?"

"Oh, when I'm done with his courts, he will," Yamela purred, and silently thanked Jahra for the grueling hours memorizing law texts. "If only in desperation for a way to get us out as soon as possible."

"You don't think the Magistrate'll rid himself of Mistress Allar in the quickest possible way as soon as he hears there's an Aes Sedai in town? If Atherie Sedai is correct and he is a Whitecloak sympathizer..."

Yamela grimaced. "That's what _I_ would have done in his place. But Atherie says he's patient, works a long strategy. He likely has some use thought out for her, and he's not about to blow it because I show up. Otherwise, it would have been better to send a couple of Warders in under cover of darkness. Find Mistress Allar, cut the Magistrate's throat, be gone before first light, no one the wiser."

Anthared grunted. This time, it was an approving grunt. He approved of any strategy that kept Aes Sedai out of harm's way.

"But Atherie plays a long strategy, too," Yamela said. "She has bigger plans for this Magistrate. She needs grounds to nudge the king openly against the Whitecloaks, and she needs the Magistrate to give them to her. To best help her, my task here is more than finding Mistress Allar. I need to step on the good Magistrate's toes. If I step hard enough, he'll grow nervous or angry and start making mistakes. Atherie would _love_ that. So I'm going to prance around like I haven't a care in all Creation, and then I'm going to meddle in his business. That should do it."

She could feel, through their bond, how thoughtful her Warder was. "Yamela Sedai," he murmured, "I don't think I've seen this side of you before."

"Oh, you have," Yamela assured him. "It used to get me into trouble with the Mistress of Novices at least once a week. Now I'm just putting it to better use."

"You might well get into trouble here, too," Anthared said darkly. "If Atherie Sedai has misjudged, and this Magistrate drops his long strategy and decides on direct action against your prancing…"

"This is why I have you, my very dear _Gaidin_."

He sighed. "Yamela Sedai, my heart will be much eased the day you bond another couple of Warders. Nine or ten of them."

"No, it won't," Yamela retorted and hugged his arm fondly, "because whoever I find, you'll never think they're good enough."

.-.-.-.

As it turned out, there were three inns in Wesseron, not one of them too shabby. Situated as it was on the road between Jehannah and Amador, the town saw enough trade to support such businesses. Yamela trusted her gut instinct and picked _Kettles and Broomsticks_. There she enjoyed a fine lamprey pie while her saddle and her saddle sores enjoyed their time apart.

After their meal they followed master Telmont, the innkeeper, upstairs. He rattled his keys while he searched for which one to give her, and chatted amiably, likely seeing her and her Warder as a good source of income. Outside the largest room's door, he handed her the key, then turned to Anthared. "I'm sorry, good sir, but I completely forgot, I suppose you want a large and fine room for yourself, and a feather bed to sleep in?"

Anthared's eyes and expression could have been cut from granite. "I'm her Warder, master Telmont. I stay in her room, and I don't sleep."

"But of course we can arrange – I'm certain that – wait, you were saying –?"

"_I don't sleep_," Anthared snarled, and the man jerked back as if he'd been struck.

"Thank you, master Telmont," Yamela said, and set a curbing hand to her Warder's arm. "Please leave us. We need to have a conversation about manners."

Her voice was soft as goose down, but Anthared grimaced. Master Telmont stammered excuses and niceties, but then hurriedly fled back down the stairs.

"You _do_ need to sleep," Yamela told her Warder sternly as she closed the door to their room behind them.

"I can sleep when we're safe back in Tar Valon," Anthared said. He was already flitting about, checking windows and cupboards, beneath the bed, in the closets, searching for hidden doors or side chambers, holding his lantern up to every suspicious crevice. He even dipped a finger into the water in the jug beside the wash basin and tasted it. "If there are people here with a bad sort of interest in Aes Sedai, I don't intend to serve mine up on a silver platter by snoring when I should be guarding. And if the innkeeper spreads the rumour that I'm awake and alert, all the better."

She gave him a look as hard as the one he'd given the innkeeper. "You may stay awake while I sleep. But once I'm awake, you _will_ sleep, Anthared. I won't have you wearing yourself down."

He reached past her shoulder and locked the door. "As my Aes Sedai commands."

She doubted it would be that easy, but it would have to do. At least she could trust him to stay away from the bottle while they were here. As long as he smelled trouble, he wouldn't drink, and he wouldn't dwell too much on the loss of his last Aes Sedai.

.-.-.-.

Two days later they were done visiting markets and merchants and had – as suspected – found no trace of mistress Dakenya Allar, who was a key figure in the Green Ajah's local Eyes and Ears network. Anthared had reported a total of four different people following them, but all of the same general 'gutter runner' type as the first girl. They had taken it in shifts, and Yamela hoped they had been well paid for watching her peruse silks and ribbons.

Court proceedings proved dull. Even though she understood them – Light shine on Jahra for her persistence and patience – she didn't enjoy them. Especially not when, as far as she could tell, the Magistrate's judgments were all sound. All she could do was sit there and try to look stern and aloof, while silently wishing that she'd had the Ageless face for it.

The Magistrate knew who she was. He and his captain Parrim looked over at her all too often for it to be a coincidence. She would return their looks with the tiniest possible nod of gracious encouragement – one she had learned from one of her White Ajah tutors – and continue to watch the proceedings. She wore green silk and a net of gold and emeralds intertwined into her black hair. She knew that she looked magnificent.

At her shoulder Anthared remained watchful. Clad in mail and a doublet of dark wool he didn't even come close to magnificent. At best, perhaps, he was a retired officer in a bad mood. The bad mood was because they had taken the sword and dagger away from him at the entrance to the courts.

Her own sword she had left at the inn. However she wanted it to, it just didn't go well with silk, gold, and the grace expected of an Aes Sedai.

At the end of the court sessions, it was all Yamela could do to keep her eyes open. There had been absolutely nothing of interest throughout the entire day. At her shoulder, Anthared hadn't moved, and didn't look like he would ever need to.

"A visit to the dungeons, I think," Yamela said, and stopped a yawn at the last moment.

"As you say, Aes Sedai."

She strode – no no no, _glided_ – towards the same exit through which all the accused had arrived and been led out. The guards at the door hesitated at her approach, and she could see their hands tighten about their weapons as they cast their eyes about, wondering what to do about her.

"Aes Sedai!" came a call from behind her.

As she turned about – _gracefully_; not the quick spin of a girl who survives on her reflexes – she saw a scowling captain Parrim approach at a quick jog.

"Captain Parrim," she greeted him, while Anthared assumed a waiting stance called Flame About To Lash, which looked just as threatening as his bond felt. She touched his arm, and he shifted into Blossom Awaiting Rain. Much better.

"I believe we have not been introduced, Aes Sedai," Parrim said. He had a hard, angular face, with small eyes that made no effort to hide how they didn't like her.

That was okay. Yamela held out her hand to him. He could either take it or demonstrate a lack of manners in front of the entire assembly. The visitors had been filing out, but that call of "Aes Sedai" had caught everyone's attention, and most were peering over to see what was happening. Yamela was on a stage, and she could lead the performance as she liked.

Parrim glanced around and recognized the trap for what it was. He took her hand and made a semblance of a bow over it.

"I am Yamela el'Ferrin, of the Green Ajah," she told him. "This is my first Warder, Anthared dan Taranthil."

"Your only Warder?"

"My _first _Warder," Yamela said again. She wanted him in doubt about how many men she had with her. "I am of the Green, captain. The Battle Ajah. We have a fondness for Warders."

He didn't like that. His already black eyes went blacker still. "What is your purpose here? We rarely have business with the Tower, and frankly, we prefer it that way."

She let herself smile at him. It was hard to resist turning it into a wolfish grin. In the back of her head Anthared was a hard knot urging caution, caution. "My visit is quite unavoidable. I am here on behalf of Atherie Sedai, who is advisor to your king. At the moment I intend to inspect your dungeons. If you would tell these boys to let me pass..?"

Both of the 'boys' looked to be older than she was, and the captain looked like he might protest, but she cut him off at once: "Deny me, captain Parrim, and I'll think you have something to hide. I'll return with Atherie Sedai, and perhaps a contingent of your king's guard. Would that be preferable?"

He knew he was trapped, again. He led her into the dungeons.

The dungeons, too, proved a disappointment. There was no sign of Dakenya Allar, who would have known to identify herself to an Aes sedai. There were only the prisoners she had already seen during the court proceedings, as well as a couple of rag-tag folk explained to her as thieves and drunkards. There was an old woman condemned the day before for the murder of her husband and who wouldn't meet Yamela's eyes; a man suspected of several accounts of rape and whose smile made Anthared practically _growl_; and a young man with cream-coloured curls who greeted her through the bars with a flourish and introduced himself as if his name would mean something to her, while captain Parrim dismissed him as a gambler who would soon be put to work to pay off his debts. Yamela judged him to be alley business and wondered if he had the skills to escape his upcoming death by hard labor.

All in all it had been a disappointing day. Yamela felt tired when she climbed the stairs back into the courts.

"Dearest lady, how weary you look," a smooth voice greeted her as she neared the top. She looked up just in time to see Anthared sweep past her, positioning himself so that there was no way anyone would be pushing her back down the stairs just as she came up. Perhaps an arm's length further from the top stair stood the Magistrate. He was a well-dressed, middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed moustache and jeweled rings on his fingers, and that air shared by some nobles that they would not smudge their dignity by running, not even if the house was on fire. He extended one hand to her – Anthared twitched, about to slap it aside, but before he did Yamela had firmly placed her own hand in the Magistrate's, and allowed him to steady her as she ascended the final step.

"Pray tell, my dear, whatever was your interest in my dungeons?" he wore a small, courteous smile and aimed it fully at her, as if her answer would fascinate him.

"A necessity," Yamela said, and smiled back at him, challenging him as to who could smile the most and mean the least by it. In the back of her head Anthared's bond seethed, about to boil over, and she knew why. Quickly she added; "But I am Aes Sedai, lord Magistrate. Do address me as such."

"Forgive me if I am misinformed, but a little bird told me just now that you are here on behalf of our King's advisor, Atherie Sedai?"

"Your little bird told you true, lord Magistrate."

"What would her interest be in my dungeons, then?" The Magistrate was leading them toward the exit, with Anthared no more than half a step behind them. Captain Parrim followed at more of a distance.

"That is not for me to say."

"I see." He was silent for a couple of steps. He had secured her arm in the crook of his, and though his grasp was gentle she had to steel herself to avoid jerking free. Her gutter rat instincts were banging on gongs and telling her to keep a distance. She'd met his kind before. He'd put on a good face but abuse a girl as soon as he thought he could get away with it. It was an old instinct, an old fear, a memory of old pain, but still strong enough to make the bile rise in her throat. She'd be best off sticking a blade in his belly before –

She reminded herself sternly that she was no longer a mere gutter rat. She had _saidar_. She had her Warder. She had the White Tower's authority at her back. And her drilled Aes Sedai sense of politics reminded her firmly that the first step to reeling in a fish was to make him bite.

She let her arm remain in his. She'd make him bite. And if he tried anything else, she'd make him regret it.

"Pray tell, my dear," he said softly, and Yamela found she was already tiring of the way he said 'my dear', as if she was a child to be reminded of her place, "Do you –"

"Magistrate!" Anthared cut in like a stroke of thunder, and Yamela felt an instant wave of gratitude towards her Warder, "she is _Aes Sedai_. You _will_ address her as such."

The Magistrate paused to consider Anthared. His gaze travelled from the silver hair, down his bony frame, to the empty sheaths at his hips and down to his worn boots. "And who would you be?"

"Anthared dan Taranthil," Anthared said, and inclined his head just a fraction. "Her Warder."

"Indeed." The Magistrate promptly turned Anthared his back. Again came that empty smile, aimed at Yamela. "Do you enjoy feasts, dancing, music? There is to be a party tonight – a nephew of mine celebrates his thirtieth birthday, and I am to stand host. I hope you would consider joining us."

"A bit of music would be welcome," Yamela said.

"Music, yes. Myself, I can't survive without it. It relaxes me. I have wind chimes in my office window, and the sound of them eases my work." He patted her arm. "If you attend tonight, I hope we shall find time to talk, you and I. You may tell me why you are here, and I may see how I might assist you."

How he might assist her out of his town as quickly as possible, Yamela thought quietly to herself, and that was if she was lucky. Aloud she said: "I would appreciate it, Magistrate." She _would_ appreciate it. If she was to glean anything at all out of him, it would be easier if he was talking.

"You must forgive me, but my work as ever beckons. I must return to it. Until tonight, then." He released her arm, and bowed, before gliding off with a regality which would have made an Aes Sedai proud. Captain Parrim stalked after him.

"Is this really such a good idea, Yamela?" Anthared wondered quietly as they resumed their walk towards the exit.

"It's an excellent idea," she told him firmly.

"You liked him less than I did, and I liked him about as much as a rat in a grain bag."

"Which is _why_ it's an excellent idea. I need to figure him out. I can't do that by sitting in my room at the inn and contemplating how little I _liked_ him."

Anthared grumbled.

She took his arm in her own and hugged it close. Taking his arm was nothing like taking the Magistrate's; his was gentle in the warm way, the comforting way, the way that made her believe that nothing could ever harm her. At once she felt much better, much braver. "On the good side," she added, "there's a fair chance he'll 'my dear' me again, and if he does, I might just let you stab him. Would you like that?"

Anthared shot her a disapproving look.

She smiled smugly. "Don't even try. I know what's in your head. You'd love it."

.-.-.-.

_Author's Note:_

This'll be a long one. Enjoy! And please tell me what you think.


	27. Green: Telling Them Apart ::2::

**Telling Them Apart**

_.-.-.-._

_Part 2_

.-.-.-.

Anthared's arm snapped out to catch the hand that had been reaching for Yamela's behind. He twisted sharply – the hand's owner whimpered – and he calmly said; "Try that again and I'll break all your fingers."

As soon as the hand was released, the man attached to it disappeared into the crowd of colourfully clad party guests.

"Really, Anthared," Yamela said wistfully, looking after him, "did you have to? He was pretty. You never let me have any fun."

"You can have fun when fun has manners," Anthared told her.

"Manners would sort of spoil the fun," Yamela muttered.

"May I remind you, my Aes Sedai, that we're not here for fun?"

Yamela grimaced. "Yes, yes, let's go find the Magistrate."

The Magistrate's party was crowded, festive, and loud, but the Magistrate himself was not difficult to find. He sat in the relative quiet of the dais at the end of the hall, at the head table, surrounded by dignitaries. A couple of those watched Yamela and Anthared approach with the sort of attention you would give a viper crawling into a nursery.

"You are wearing that knife, I hope?" Anthared asked softly.

"Tied to my ankle," she assured him, "as you well know. And the silk ribbon tied to the other. But I'll need neither, Anthared. I've got _saidar_. I've got you."

"I don't like the looks they're giving you," he muttered.

"I'm glad to hear that your instincts are still sound, my _Gaidin_."

He scoffed at her, but quieted.

The Magistrate himself ignored them until they were close. Then his face lit up with recognition, and he offered Yamela the seat next to his own, shooing away a young cockerel whose nose was so high in the air it might catch on a chandelier any moment.

"Allow me to introduce you to my good friends," the Magistrate told her with a magnanimous air. "The lords Hoyoth, Kareth, Gregaire. Captain Esber, and captain Parrim you already know. Esquires Sarr and Vither, and that was esquire Hallomer who warmed your seat for you. My lords, captains, esquires, this is Yamela el'Ferrin. Aes Sedai, if you can believe it of such a pretty young face." He smiled and patted her hand as if that compliment was worthy of the history books.

"Believe it," Yamela said, and channeled. A clean glass floated towards her from the end of the table, and the wine pitcher rose by itself to fill it before it landed in her hand. Releasing _saidar_ was an effort of will. She sipped the wine, and retuned the Magistrate's smile. "An excellent vintage."

Around her faces had either whitened or darkened. The Magistrate was perfectly expressionless. "Ah, yes. It's from a friend of mine, who has a small vineyard of his own. He sends me a few of bottles each year, very kind of him. Now do tell me, Yamela Sedai, why you have come to visit this, my humble little corner of Creation?"

"As I told you, Magistrate, I have duties appointed me by Atherie Sedai, who serves your king," Yamela told him, "but I'm afraid I'm not free to speak openly about them."

"Aes Sedai and their secrets," muttered one of the lords – Yamela had forgotten his name already. Hoyster? Hoyall?

"Lord Hoyoth," whispered Anthared in her ear. "Atherie Sedai spoke of him. He was lorded recently, for services to the lord Magistrate. Esquire Hallomer is his son, I believe. He's the one who left the table."

Yamela turned to the lord Hoyoth. "We are not the only ones with secrets, my lord," she told him coolly. "There isn't a politician in the world who doesn't have secrets, and most of them lie as often as they breathe. We, at least, _do not lie_."

"A child's tale," smiled the lord Magistrate, "surely! For even if there was such a thing as a binding oath, and one not to lie at that, why would you take it?"

"So that people may trust us," Yamela said.

"Which they don't!" said the captain who wasn't Parrim.

"Captain Esber," Anthared supplied quietly.

"My sweet girl," began the grey-haired esquire seated opposite from Yamela –

Anthared slammed a fist down on the table so that everyone aside from Yamela jumped, and the lord Hoyoth even landed gracelessly on the floor. "Esquire Sarr! She is Aes Sedai," Anthared snarled into the following silence, and bored burning eyes into the now white-faced esquire. "Not your 'sweet girl'."

"The Warder is touchy about his protégé's titles," commented the lord beside Hoyoth dryly, which drew a roll of chuckles through the gathering, while the lord Hoyoth tried to recapture some dignity, despite his place on the floor. "Perhaps he fears they might be in some doubt?"

"She wears the ring, and she has done you the grace of channeling before your eyes, my lord," Anthared pointed out, using a most diplomatic way to describe what Yamela's tutors would have frowned at as unjustified bragging. "What is there to doubt?"

Lord Hoyoth made no secret of his dislike. He was up now, but instead of reassuming his seat he spat at the floor. "Pardon me, my lord Magistrate," he said, "but I believe I shall retire." He also made no secret of his sign to ward off evil, aimed at Yamela.

The two other lords made similar excuses and hurried after him. The captain Esber rose with some difficulty – stiff joints, Yamela concluded, though he was young for it – and bowed to the Magistrate before he left, leaning on the arm of one of the esquires. The Magistrate gave esquire Sarr a wave of his hand, and Sarr caught on. He was the last of the company, but now he quickly made his own excuses and left.

"Perhaps now you would tell me why you're here, Yamela Sedai," said the Magistrate in a business-like, crisp voice.

"It has to do with your watch over the border to Amadicia," Yamela said. "The King, and Atherie Sedai, are concerned over things which slip between your fingers."

"_Smuggling_?" He frowned. "Since when do Aes Sedai involve themselves in small-time smuggling over borders in the Westlands? What could possibly be smuggled here that is of value to you?"

"Nevertheless," Yamela said, "I would like a look at your toll and market revenues, over, say, the last three months."

"I shall have a copy made on the morrow and delivered to you," he said, and shrugged, "but it'll be dry reading."

She expected it to be. Which was why Anthared would be reading it while she slept. If he insisted on staying awake to guard her throughout the night, he might as well make good use of the time. "I would also like copies of all court cases related to smuggling, over the same time period."

His eyes narrowed. "And what would you do with those? You've sat watch over my courts yourself. You've seen a sample of my judgments. I happen to know that the King's own judiciaries have praised my judgments on numerous occasions."

"If there is something in those court cases that you don't wish me to see, lord Magistrate…"

"I am doing you a favor, letting you see my toll and market revenues, Aes Sedai," he said coolly, "What you would want with them I can't fathom. But if you need my court protocols, have the King send me an emissary. Those files are not for stranger's eyes."

"Your King will take note of your reluctance, lord Magistrate," she said quietly, "and so will the Tower."

He did not look amused. He turned from her, raising his hand, and waved. His former companions began to move back towards them. "I heard you have taken rooms at the _Kettles and Broomsticks_," he said, "and I commend your choice. Master Telmont is a dependable sort. You'll be staying a few more days, I assume: We must talk again. Perhaps when you have looked through my revenues? Until then, I wish you a pleasant evening." He bowed his head to her, most graciously, but it was as clear a dismissal as any.

Yamela didn't mind. She offered him that faint inclination of the head that Illova Sedai of the White had been so fond of, the one that always had made Yamela feel like she was a little girl who'd succeeded at some small chore, like tying her shoe laces, in front of a queen. She hoped it gave the Magistrate the same feeling of inadequacy, and took Anthared's arm as she left.

Down in the crowd they were met by the esquire Hallomer, the one who the Magistrate had shooed away to give Yamela a seat. His nose was still too high in the air for Yamela's liking, but he offered her a bow and held out his hand. "Might I be so bold, lady Aes Sedai, as to ask you for a dance?"

Anthared stiffened beside her. Yamela considered the young man, mostly his eyes. They were not the hopeful eyes of a man asking for a dance. They were apprehensive, full of depth and secrets. They were the eyes of a man who needed an opportunity to talk. She unhooked her arm from Anthared's. "I'd like that very much," she said, and added to her Warder; "Now, for my _fun_. This one has manners."

She let the esquire Hallomer lead her out onto the floor, being sure to swish her long skirts more than necessary, adopting a young woman's coquettish walk. If anyone saw her they would likely forget that she was Aes Sedai, and think her a foolish maid thrilled at an invitation to dance. The esquire watched her as if he thought so, too, and there was disappointment in his eyes.

To reassure him, at the start of the dance she smirked and said; "If I act enough like a foolish girl, will they leave me alone?"

He returned her smirk with apparent relief. "The young men will not, Aes Sedai. I do believe you're the most beautiful woman here."

"Don't flatter me."

"It was said in earnest," he replied.

"But I was speaking of the older men. The ones with plots and schemes."

His smile fell. He was quiet for a while, and she left him in peace, enjoying the music and the dance. It was one of the Greens who had taught her to dance after she joined the Ajah. So far she had danced mostly with Warders, men who had perfect control of their feet. In Jehannah, while working with Atherie Sedai, she had encountered men who were likely to step on her toes twice or thrice during each song. Fortunately, the esquire Hallomer was not one of those. He moved gracefully, if not with the lethal grace of Warders. When the music quieted he pulled her closer, close enough to whisper in her ear. "My betrothed has fled to the White Tower. I would join her once she reaches the shawl and can take Warders, only my father forbids it. I tell you this so that you will know I am not your enemy."

It could be just a tale, but the tremble beneath his words spoke of sincerity. It was the sincerity of the young and flamboyant, who didn't know the world well enough yet to differ it from the fairy tale. He thought fleeing to Tar Valon was a simple matter, reaching the shawl was a simple matter. Yamela decided not to disturb his fancies. She replied in a similar whisper: "So, I have enemies here?"

"Yes. My father among them, and the Magistrate. It is good that you have your Warder with you, Aes Sedai. My father names you openly as witches. He has good friends in Amador. Good friends among the Children."

"And you?"

"My betrothed, my sweet Meire… he dismisses her too as a witch. Because she can channel. She Healed my bruises for years, when we were younger, by kissing the pain away, just like her mother used to do with her. We never realized it was anything more than a gesture. I thought I just healed fast, nothing ever hurt for long. But then I broke my arm… no one could ignore that." The tremble in his voice gained a fervent pitch. "My father is wrong. I grew up with Meire. If she is a creature of the Shadow, then the Shadow may take me any day."

"Don't talk like that," Yamela admonished him.

"I'll talk like I please," he snapped.

She snapped right back at him: "How about you talk like this conversation is worth my time?"

He sobered commendably quickly. "My father corresponds regularly with an officer in the Children. His correspondence is close to treasonous. I could bring you some of those letters."

Yamela's heart skipped a beat. "You would do that?"

"Yes."

"To your own father?" The idea left a bad taste in her mouth. She hadn't had a family growing up, but she had imagined blood relations would be stronger than the loosely tied thieves' crews she'd known. It seemed she'd been wrong.

Esquire Hallomer replied quickly, bitterly. The dance was coming to an end. "He's never been much of a father. And since… since Meire left… he's been worse."

"I'll send a girl to your estate tomorrow," Yamela told him. "To the kitchen entrance. Leave a package with the maids. Say it's for your Meire, they'll love that, and they'll take the secret to their graves."

He swallowed, and she detected a faint sheen of sweat over his face. This wasn't as easy for him as he wanted her to believe. "As for you, lady Aes Sedai… be careful. My father is too much of a coward to move against you, but those friends of his in the Children…"

"Don't concern yourself for me," Yamela said, and tried for a soothing tone. "I am well able to defend myself."

He nodded, and the two of them parted. Anthared, who had hovered nearby and glowered during the entire dance, was at once there to offer her his arm. She took it.

"He's given you good news?" Anthared guessed.

"Better than I could have hoped for," she replied, still trying to believe her good fortune.

"And what did you glean from your talk with the Magistrate?"

"What he told me," Yamela said with disgust, "by flaunting his friends and refusing me those files, was that this is _his_ city, and I had best leave as soon as possible if I don't want to get hurt."

Anthared touched the hilt of his sword. The gesture calmed him. Somewhat. "So what do we do?"

"We shall spend an evening appearing to enjoy his party," Yamela muttered. "I think I'll dance some more. But first, I need to think. Let's take a stroll through his gardens."

They did that. The air was chilly, the gardens were lit by painted paper lanterns, and the snow glittered in a thousand colours around them. Anthared put his own colour-shifting cloak over her shoulders and followed quietly in her wake as she walked along an already trampled path. She spent the time thinking, admiring the lanterns, enjoying the fresh air. She had always liked winter. Even though she heard the distant music from the party, and the voices and merriment, they felt far away. Otherwise it was quiet and peaceful – no, _wait_. There was another melody: a gentle, irregular tinkling…

She looked up. "Wind chimes," she said, as she recognized the metal tubes hanging in the window for what they were. "That's the Magistrate's office. What I wouldn't give to…"

Anthared stiffened beside her. He knew what she was thinking, and he didn't like it. Well, he could dislike it if he wished. She studied the climbing vines of the plant that made their way up the stone wall, all the way to the window. It would be an easy climb. Well, considering the season it might be slippery, but… She could still have done it with her eyes closed.

"Yamela, it's a foolish risk –"

"It's child's play," Yamela corrected him. "I'll just be a moment." Problem was, she was wearing a dress, with a long skirt. Lucky for her that she wore that silk ribbon twirled about one ankle, and now the silk came to good use; in a moment she had tied up her skirts about her hips, leaving her legs free enough for the climb. She handed him his cloak back.

"What if someone comes?"

What was really bothering him, she realized, was that she would be leaving him behind, here, in the gardens. She'd be out of his sight. That made him nervous enough that his hands started to tremble. "If someone comes, I'll climb back down."

"What if –"

"I've done this since I was four, Anthared. I'll be fine."

It didn't help. His face was beginning to lose its healthy color. "Yamela – Yamela Sedai – you're Aes Sedai now, not a cat burglar. You can't go climbing walls and breaking into offices."

"Oh yes I can. I'll just be a moment," Yamela promised him. "Wait here."

"But, Yamela –" His worry was a live thing, writhing as wildly on his face as it did in the back of her head. He was a hair from grabbing her and holding her. She gave him a sharp look.

"_Wait_ _here_!" she commanded, then turned and swung herself up among the vines. She heard him whimper below, before she firmly put him out of her mind. Or tried to. That knot of emotions was impossible to ignore, and it felt like he was reaching to her through it, even over the distance trying to grab her and pull her close, pull her to safety. As she swung her legs over the windowsill and landed on silent feet in the Magistrate's office, she sent one look down at him in the garden. He had donned his Warder's cloak and raised the hood and stepped closer to the vines, and if not for the bond and its anxious storm she wouldn't have seen him.

She tried to send him soothing thoughts, tried to wrap up his writhing fear in a cocoon of calm, and began with practiced quickness to explore the contents of the Magistrate's drawers.

Documents, documents, documents. The man was neat, she would give him that; everything was in perfect order. Which meant that what she was looking for would not be there. She shut the drawers and looked around. If she was hiding secret files, where would she put them? Quickly she felt behind tapestries and paintings, tapped the books in the book shelves, felt along the edges of the furniture. Nothing. It should be here. Somewhere. Some sort of incriminating correspondence. If his friend was corresponding with the White Cloaks, why wouldn't he be, too? But there was nothing.

Anthared was starting to feel ill down in the gardens. She could feel his heart rate pick up, his breathing quicken, the bile rising in his throat. She put her head out the window. "I'm _fine_," she hissed down at him. "Calm down."

At the sight of her relief raked through him so violently it was a wonder he didn't lose his balance. "Yamela, I'm coming –"

"You're _not_ coming up. You're staying put. I'll be down in a moment!" She spun back to look about the room. If she'd been hiding secret files, where –

Ah. But of course.

The book shelf was filled with smallish books. Most of them covered topics of accounting or laws or history. There were three exceptions; three books large and wide enough to hide papers in. The first two proved to be normal books, but inside the third one – it called itself an atlas of the Borderlands – a hole had been cut through the pages, and there within lay several papers with text she couldn't read. Having learned – praise Jahra, yet again – to recognize and read most known tongues of the world, it wasn't hard to figure this was some kind of code. Without the key, the papers were useless to her. She slammed the book shut and replaced it in the shelf.

Again she let her eyes drift across the room. Now, if she was the key to a secret code, where would she be?

She heard footsteps.

Perhaps it was Anthared's fear leaking through the bond, but she didn't react sensibly. She bolted for the window like a frightened deer and was halfway down the vines before she remembered that she should have double-checked that everything looked like she'd found it. She climbed back up and, keeping her head in the corner where the curtain would help hide her, she peered over the windowsill. The curtain was sheer enough and the room inside lit enough that she could see in, but she doubted that anyone could see through the curtain and distinguish the dark shadow of her head from the dark winter night.

Into the office came captain Parrim. He delivered a stack of papers onto the Magistrate's desk, and then went to the cupboard to bring out wine. He appeared to be in no hurry whatsoever, and with a glass in his hand sat himself down in a stool.

Yamela muttered to herself, but climbed back down and rejoined Anthared. He took her by the elbows and held her out at arm's length and looked her up and down several times before he was convinced that she wasn't hurt, and released her long enough that she could let down her skirts again. Then the two of them strolled arm in arm away. It wouldn't do to be caught loitering beneath the Magistrate's window, after all.

She returned to dancing, and they left very late.

.-.-.-.

Yamela exploded awake and was sitting up in her bed, sheathed sword in hand, before she knew what had woken her. The room was quiet, though, and the only peculiarity was the explosive outrage in Anthared's bond. It wasn't fear, or pain; just outrage. He was out in the sitting room, just on the other side of her door, which wasn't shut. She toed over to the closet and found herself a dress she could don quickly, then slipped past the door and into the sitting room.

Anthared was sitting on someone. Someone who lay face-down on the floor. It was a youth as tall as Anthared himself, but without Anthared's bony leanness. Her Warder was just finishing tying the youth's hands together behind his back.

Yamela blinked a few times to make sure her eyes were properly awake. "What's this?"

"I'm sorry, Yamela Sedai," he said, "I was trying not to wake you. I told the rascal to be quiet, too, and he's obeying. I thought I'd save it for the morning."

"Well, I'm certainly awake now," she said, and stifled a yawn. "What's this about?"

"Not what. _Who_. Could you supply a little light?"

She snapped her fingers and a small ball of white light popped into being. She brought it down to the prisoner. Anthared raised his face by a grip on his blond curls.

"Would you look at that," he muttered. "I thought I knew the voice, but…"

"Durrak Morrent," Yamela said, recognizing the gambler from the prison who had introduced himself and greeted her with such a flourish. "That was your name, wasn't it? How did you escape your cell?"

The youth shrugged. The side of his face was freshly marked; likely Anthared had struck him.

"Well, if that's his name," Anthared growled, and he did _growl_ it, "what I want to know is why _Durrak Morrent_ approaches me about breaking _Durrak Morrent_ out of prison?"

"He did _what_?"

"This lad came in here and tried to buy me," Anthared explained. His bond radiated the same outrage as it had done a few minutes back. "He asks me what it would cost if I was to look the other way while he spirited _that Aes Sedai_ away." He shook the head he was holding. "_You_, lad, clearly haven't understood the first thing about Warders. Allow me to educate you. I will sell you my own liver served in gravy before I let you near as much as her toenail cuttings."

"But you figured I would want to question him before you wrung his neck?"

"Something like that," grumped Anthared.

"Good Warder. Put him in a chair."

Anthared _put_ the youth in a chair. Then stood over him. He made one effort to rise, but when Anthared easily stopped him he sank down on the seat in apparent submission. Or feigned submission. "I'll be good, I'll be good."

"You'd better be," Anthared told him, "and mind your manners. You'll address her as 'Yamela Sedai', or 'Aes Sedai', and nothing less."

The youth aimed a smile at Yamela which was all too pretty and innocent to be truthful. "Good morning to you, Yamela Sedai. I've been told to mind my manners. So I would bow, but I suspect someone would smash my skull in if I moved that much."

"You're likely right," Yamela told him, and looked about for a seat. She found a divan, pulled it closer to her with the Power, and sat neatly down in front of him. "Now then. First things first. Will you accept a bit of Healing for that bruise?"

She expected him to say no. Few people trusted Aes Sedai that far, especially this close to Amador.

But he nodded.

Anthared seized him by the shoulder to keep him firmly in his seat while Yamela set light fingertips to the bruise on his face. Air, Water, Spirit, and he shivered. As soon as it was done, Anthared made a discreet gesture for her to retreat, and keep her distance. She sat back down on her divan, perhaps three steps back. He'd have to be pleased with that. She needed to be close enough to see young Morrent's expression. She crossed her legs and rested her clasped hands on the top knee. "Now. Tell me your name."

He looked like he might lie, opening his mouth all too fast. Then he closed it and considered. Finally… "Morrent, Aes Sedai. But not Durrak. My name's Vaston Morrent."

"You're twins."

He smiled another of those too-pretty smiles. "If I told you we're of no relation whatsoever, sweety, would you believe me?"

"She's not your sweety, lad," warned Anthared. "That kind of disrespect is a new black eye waiting to happen."

"Which I'll charm the lady Aes Sedai into Healing for me. You'll have to do better than that if you want to frighten me, you old goat."

Too quickly for the cocky youngster to react, Anthared gave him another black eye. Enough of it to send him flying dazed across the room. Yamela sighed heavily and _looked_ at her Warder. He returned the look blankly, pretending not to understand it.

"If you're quite done, my _Gaidin_, please put him back in his chair."

The youth glared at Anthared while the Warder deposited him unceremoniously on his chair, but did not comment. Somehow he made his sulk look adorable instead of annoying.

"I will Heal you," Yamela told him coolly, "after I have my answers. That is, if there's anything left of you to Heal. My Warder isn't known for his patience."

"Or his genteel conduct," muttered Vaston Morrent, who now peered at her from beneath a bleeding cracked eyebrow with an eye already swelling shut.

Yamela sighed again, and fixed him with her gaze. A particularly piercing one which she had learned from Pesha Sedai – a Red. "You're obviously alley business. I would expect you to be adaptable. I would expect you to bend enough to avoid being broken. And here's one of those situations where you'll need to bend if you don't want to be broken. Do you understand me?"

He took the hint. He dropped his smile and nodded soberly.

"Are you and this Durrak Morrent twins?"

"Yes, Aes Sedai."

"And he is still in his cell?"

"As far as I know, Aes Sedai."

"You intend to bust him out?"

"Of course, Aes Sedai."

"And for this, your plan was to whisk me away… by bribing my Warder?"

Anthared muttered something beneath his breath. The bond in Yamela's head was a bead of thunder, full of lightning waiting to strike. Yamela sent him soothing feelings. Herself, she was amazed. Busting someone out of prison, kidnapping an Aes Sedai, and bribing a Warder? Either Vaston Morrent had too little sense, or he had far too much nerve.

"Yes, Aes Sedai."

"But _why_?"

He hesitated, but when she firmed her expression and adopted Pesha Sedai's steely gaze again, he gave in. "It seemed the safest course of action."

"_Safest_?" Yamela kept her eyes from popping out of their sockets with an effort of will. "Whatever were your alternatives?"

"Well, maybe not the safest. Durrak could have pretended to hang himself in his cell, and I'd have pretended to be his ghost and frightened off the guards. It's worked before. But this prison is a bit trickier than the last one."

Yamela smothered a grin. Anthared, who felt her amusement, sent her an admonishing look over Vaston's head. She had to remind herself that she was Aes Sedai now, and nothing else. Her own days of trickery were long gone. Well… mostly gone. She smoothed her face and returned to the task at hand. "But you haven't answered my question. _Why_? Why would removing me in any way help you to get your brother out of prison?"

Vaston hesitated only a moment, before he sighed. "Well, Aes Sedai. With you gone, the legislates would have been easier to bribe. Which would be a much safer way to get my brother out than to do what they're telling me to do. I suspect we'll end up dead if we do, no matter what they say."

"Who is his _they_?"

"Captain Parrim. Well, not exactly. It was a chap called Yemerry that talked to me. But I'm sure the good captain's behind it."

"And what do they say?"

"They sound all reasonable. I've been told they'll release Durrak if I say a couple of things in court. Except, if you're listening in on the courts, I can't sit there and lie, can I? They say Aes Sedai can put a spell on you and tell if you're lying. I might be turned into a toad or something!"

Yamela tried not to blink in surprise. There were so many things wrong with this supposition, she didn't know where to start. "Oh. Well, that's a terrible thought. Anthared, would I do such a thing?"

"Quite possibly, Aes Sedai," Anthared replied, with as straight a face as ever.

Vaston shook his head nervously. "Doesn't matter if that's true or not, because they're not holding these proceedings while you're here."

That nervousness was just one touch over the top. It felt like a cold finger running down her spine; she realized she'd been baited, and she'd bitten, and with her joke to Anthared, she'd likely revealed exactly what he'd wanted to learn. For why would a man who had no compunctions about kidnapping her be worried about lying in front of her? The entire comment had to have been a test. More carefully, she asked: "What are they asking you to say?"

"Some mean things about a mistress Dakenya Allar."

Anthared's face didn't twitch. Yamela did her best to keep her expression as smooth as his. Again she drew on her White tutor's cool regality. "Do you know why?"

Vaston shook his head again, with that exact same nervousness. "They're getting edgy now that you're here. I've heard whispered that they'll blow the entire farce off. In that case they'll silence the mistress, and likely me and Durrak both. Perhaps Yemerry, too. That's why I decided to get you out of the way as soon as possible." He looked at her with pleading puppy eyes, warm and wide and sad enough to melt the hardest of hearts. "Please, lady Aes Sedai. It wasn't personal. It's just… my brother… he's all I have."

"Yamela Sedai," Anthared said quietly, "we should turn him in."

"If we do," Yamela speculated, without taking her eyes off Vaston's, "they'll be suspicious of what Vaston has said to me, and he and his brother will most definitely be silenced."

"He should have thought of that before he waltzed in here and tried to bribe me," growled her Warder, shooting Vaston a nasty look.

Anthared was taking this personally. If he'd kept a level head, he would have known that turning Vaston in now could endanger mistress Allar, too. Instead, that outrage still stormed, clearly intervening with his logic. She could see why. Even she found it very distracting. "Control yourself," she ordered him, "and let me _think_."

"Let me think for you, my lady," suggested Vaston quickly. "I can be of use to you."

"Of course you can. The question is how."

"How about I show you what mistress Allar found, and why she and Durrak are imprisoned?"

.-.-.-.

_Author's Note:_

Oh, I'd like to have seen the look on Anthared's face when Vaston tried to bribe him. Just the thought of it had me grinning for a week. That specific idea is one of the foundations for this entire story.

Go on now; review, and tell me if it made you grin too. Inspire me to continue.


End file.
